


A Different Kind of Failure

by JanuaryWonder



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, De-Aged Steve Rogers, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mentions of Mental Illness, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Endgame, Post-Snap/Post-Blip Politics, Slow Burn, The Art Of Moving On?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:14:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 115,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26737210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanuaryWonder/pseuds/JanuaryWonder
Summary: TL;DR: The one with post-Snap/post-Blip politics, where Bucky and Steve drink coffee while discussing existential questions with their psychoanalyst neighbor and find their unique way towards healing after the day on the lake.***Steve is back to what he'd naively thought would be the final act of a life more-or-less well lived, but it doesn't take long to see that nothing will go according to plan: the world is crumbling faster than anyone can hope to pick up its pieces. Between political clashes and mass hysteria about the Returned, he feels simultaneously responsible for the mess and too tired to mend it. After a conspiracy orchestrated by a new fascist movement threatens his friends, he finds his desire for justice outweighs wishful thoughts about retirement. To set things right, he'll need to use a bit of what Bruce had gotten wrong while planning the Time Heist and – more importantly – to internalize the words of a very wise woman who once told him: "All we can do is our best, and sometimes the best that we can do is to start over."
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes & Sharon Carter, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers - Relationship, Steve Rogers & Original Female Character(s), Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson
Comments: 141
Kudos: 67





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We start where Endgame left off, at the lake with Old!Steve and the conversation he should've had on screen with Bucky. The story then moves to Europe to give one of the Avengers the closure she deserves, and Steve and Bucky the space to figure out where their New Normal is. An original character is introduced and hints about what's to come abound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because good friends are hard to come by, because those I've met in Budapest have been a salvation on more occasions than they know and have propelled me forward, always - I'd like to dedicate this story to H., who is by far my favorite reader.
> 
> This is the prologue/intro chapter where nothing *much* happens, but plot and feels do come eventually. :)
> 
> Content warnings (which generalize to the rest of the fic) include: mentions of homophobia, genocide, racism and various -isms. They aren't elaborated on in a lot of detail, but please skip this one if you think you might be adversely affected by these themes, and take care.
> 
> Finally, while the fic is rated M because of these themes, it’s more romance than explicit smut - giving you a heads up in case you feel like reading the latter.

_So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—_   
_Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres_   
_Trying to use words, and every attempt_   
_Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure_   
_Because one has only learnt to get the better of words_   
_For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which_   
_One is no longer disposed to say it._

_T.S. Eliot, East Coker_

*

The bells of St. Stephen's Basilica ring for six and a quarter, _post meridiem_. Steve is still trying to center his tie knot in the collar, staring incredulously into the hotel mirror. Silver hair sleeked back; laugh lines around his mouth; crows' feet bracketing his eyes - they tell a story of a life well lived. _What has it all been for_ , Steve wonders with a little disdain, _if he can't even fix his damn tie_.

Bucky enters the room shouting 'Steven Grant Rogers, we are all waiting for y– ' before realizing the cause of the delay.

Steve's fumbling coaxes a smile out of Buck who is wearing an unassuming ensemble, clothes blending together in a way that makes it hard to tell what exactly he's wearing. Except that it's black. For good measure, he also has a black leather glove on his vibranium arm and a black silver-tipped cane dangling off it, which he insists makes him look inconspicuous. Steve would beg to disagree, what with being more than a century old and decidedly _not_ needing a cane, but he's never been a covert assassin, so he lets Bucky have it. Bucky has also cut his hair, back to what Steve thinks of as his 'original cut', i.e. the one he had in New York: they have what is virtually the exact same hairstyle, only Bucky wears it with the freshness and unabashed _cool_ of a young(ish) hipster, while Steve looks like an old man who 's refused to change barbers since the 1940's. There's something else about his friend that Steve can't quite place. While Bucky had always been cool, he was never cold – there is a distance in him now that wasn't there before. Perhaps this is why the smile takes Steve by surprise, eager to accept the help he would otherwise most certainly refuse.

'You never could do this on your own,' Bucky sighs while performing what looks like a supernaturally quick succession of magic tricks until the knot is firmly where it needs to be, the diamond at the end of the tie perfectly hovering above Steve's belt.

'I've always had help, it seems,' Steve jokes, to an unsurprising absence of reaction. Bucky hasn't looked at him once since his return and that first conversation they had by the lake, though they've spent more time together than apart. Just as Steve is about to say something to this end, Sam comes in with Clint at his side to ask about the delay.

'What's it with this room, we lost our good man Barnes as well now – is it a wormhole? Time drain... _thingy_?'

Sam is wearing a very formal-looking black suit not that dissimilar to Steve's, which makes the bad attempt at sci-fi seriousness all the more hilarious. Both of them look ridiculous shoulder to shoulder with Bucky-the-modern-vampire (which is also laughable), and Clint sporting a black leather jacket and dark gray jeans, who - perhaps for the first time ever - appears to be the most normal. 

'Ready,' Clint more says than asks. Bucky tugs Steve's tie to be sure of a job well done and nods. The bells of St. Stephen's ring once more.

' _Jee-zus Christ_ , you'd think people won't forget they're living in the Vatican 2.0 in the span of fifteen minutes without these fucking bells to remind them,' Clint huffs. Bucky laughs as Sam rolls his eyes and opens the door for Steve, who is luckily self-aware enough not to counter Clint's cussing with an inane warning like 'Language _._ '

The weight of the wooden chest in his hands reminds him this is neither the time, nor the place. When he drops his gaze to it, the blue veins tangling around the wood remind him of electrical currents he'd once seen ensnare a mutual enemy. When he'd turned to say thanks, her orange hair carried on the winds caressing the dark surface of the Indian Ocean had distracted him; its strands frazzled by the salty air and the ship's reflectors outlining each as sharply as if it were a garrote. She hadn't looked dangerous or lethal, however. 'So young' was the only thought that had crossed his mind.

'You're welcome,' she'd deadpanned and strolled right past him, back into the dark. But her grin – the Chesire-cat-like grin she's flashed a millisecond before being swallowed by the womb of the ship – it remained hanging in the night air long after she'd disappeared. Steve still remembers the shape of her every tooth, perfectly.

*

Bucky still hasn't grown used to seeing who he now refers to as New Steve in his mind, ignoring the fact the man is older than him and older than any iteration of _his_ Steve he'd ever encountered. Even after the allotted five seconds have passed and _his_ Steve hasn't appeared on the platform – much like Bucky had known would happen – the sight of the fragile body sitting by the lake still unmoors him. He ushers Sam towards the bench, where New Steve is watching straight ahead at the calm surface of the water and the suddenly resurrected animal life fighting for dominance above. Bucky makes sure to stay out of earshot because it isn't his moment – and not his friend. The latter realization – his gut telling him Steve is gone and never coming back – threatens to trigger everything he'd tried to unlearn from his time as the Winter Soldier, the bare-nerve, bloody fight-or-flight instinct. There is no need for running anymore, certainly not fighting, but his body tenses up, so much so that by the time he relaxes, Sam is already back and staring between him and the new shield in his hand with incredulity, as if to say 'What. The. Fuck.'

Then he actually says it.

'What. The. Fuck. Man? Did you know about this?'

Bucky raises his eyebrows, arms involuntarily crossing around his torso to shield him from the accusation. What happened yesterday is between Steve and him alone, and though he's grown used to Sam's hovering presence over the week they've had between the battle and now, he is still reluctant to share. However much Sam will resent it, being _all about_ sharing.

'I think I'll go talk to him now.'

'Sure. Good luck. He wasn't very forthcoming. It's... well, it's a shock. Consider this a heads up.'

Bucky doesn't need to be told, but appreciates Sam's comforting pat on the back as he takes a step towards old New Steve. The first thing he notices are the creases on the back of his neck, peaking above the starched collar where the gray hairs still haven't reached. He'd never seen those on Steve – not when they were younger (obviously), not when he saw him for the first time all those years ago on the bridge, not when he saw him again in Wakanda before the fight with Thanos. He'd missed them when they embraced, minutes ago, after a badly timed inside joke. Bucky realizes, three steps in, that he'd _hoped_ for a different outcome despite his intimate understanding of Steve, of Agent Carter, and the whole star-crossed (time-crossed?) lovers' story they'd had going. He'd still – unbelievably, unknowingly – expected to be surprised, seeing his friend back on that platform after his five seconds of life in the past were over.

'How're you doing, buddy?'

One of the many habits difficult to break from his assassin days is his stealth walking mode, which inexplicably startles Steve for a moment. Though the mouth isn't the same, nor the face, nor the hands softly resting on the too-knobbly knee, Steve welcomes him to the bench with a smile Bucky can, thankfully, recognize. He can't parse his thoughts well enough to discern if this is comforting or all the more painful.

'Bucky,' Steve says through lips drawn almost up to the ears. 'It's _so good_ to see you, pal.'

Bucky shrugs and looks away, focusing on a pair of birds dancing in the air above the lake Steve had also been observing. Their wings brush the surface every now and then, creating small ripples on the otherwise pristine, smooth water.

'I hope _you_ didn't do anything stupid. I haven't had the time, to tell the truth.' Steve chuckles and takes Bucky's flesh hand in his own. A glance at their conjoined hands tells Bucky all he needs to know. 'I also hope you gave my love to Agent Carter,' he says, after making reasonably sure his voice won't betray him.

'Believe it or not, Buck, she was sad not to see you again.'

'That was to be expected. I was always the one easier on the eyes, and she had good taste.'

The joke is pathetically halfhearted. If Steve notices, he doesn't remark on it.

'Indeed. That's why I always wondered, why she -' New Steve's voice cracks at the last word, leaving the sentence unfinished. Bucky decides enough is enough and turns his flesh hand palm up so he can intertwine the paper-dry fingers with his own.

'I know,' he says vaguely. 'Steve.. did you – I mean, were you – _are_ you – I –' he can't bring himself to finish the sentence either. Part of it is surely reticence about hearing the answer, part simply not knowing how. How do you ask the person closest to you if they had a life worth living – a life they'd wanted, chosen – if it was a happy and perfect one, without you? Steve picks up on his hesitation and squeezes Bucky's hand tightly before talking.

'Yes,' he says simply, with the conviction of one who has had time to think about a myriad pros and cons to include in the equation of his answer; an answer that was always going to be simple and uncomplicated because of the person he is, and the person he'd fallen in love with. Bucky could see it, even back when nothing had seemed simple. They were two sides of the same coin, Steve and Peggy, and if it took something as soul-crushing as a world war to bring them together, well. It meant the fates had probably agreed with him, for once. 

'So what now? Are you back for _good_ , back for a _good-bye_?' Bucky takes his hand away from Steve's, not to let on how nervous the question makes him.

'I'm here,' Steve says, as if that even comes close to a satisfying answer. 'What about you?'

' _I'm here_ ,' Bucky counters, rolling his eyes.

'Would you like to be elsewhere?'

Steve has a new way of talking, Bucky notes – he's not sure if he should blame the time spent with Agent Carter or time in general for it. While he'd always been honest, _his_ Steve had rarely been as straightforward. The person sitting next to him, though, speaks as if there is no tomorrow. Perhaps age is to blame after all, Bucky concludes, given that for all he knows, New Steve might be dying in a similar time-frame.

'Remember when we were kids, and we talked about seeing the Grand Canyon? Did you ever go in the end?'

Steve is silent long enough for Bucky to read it as a yes. After a while, he speaks again, turning his head toward Bucky to stare right at him, which is uncomfortable even with Bucky's eyes still firmly focused on the birds dancing above the lake.

'Where is home, Buck? Or, maybe, _what_ is it? For you?'

Bucky doesn't know where to begin, how to uncoil the memories, which thread to grasp and hold on to from the skein he'd neatly wound them in – the most painful, the happiest – tucked safely in the middle, unreachable. Home. But then, he thinks the question itself is wrong; it should start with _who_.

'Wakanda had beautiful sunsets, but it was more like leave in-between two battles than home. New York? Chock-full of ghosts. I'm not the same, neither are you,' Bucky huffs at the understatement. 'Home isn't supposed to hurt, is it? I think of Ma and Becks, and I just... I don't want to go back there. Eastern Europe? I spent practically half my life in the region and I couldn't tell one city apart from another. They didn't let me out for walks, exactly.' Steve's eyes glint at his mention of Europe, the seed of a plan beginning to form – a look, Bucky takes another mental note, that has also remained unchanged. _'What_?'

'You know, a friend once told me great things about Budapest. Maybe we could pay a visit.'

Bucky is surprised by the suggestion. Steve's voice doesn't betray any nerves, but his little finger jumps slightly as he says the word 'we'.

'You want to go together? To Hungary?'

'It's not Hungary anymore – at least for the time being. How do you not know this? You'd had _days_ to read up before I left.' Steve looks like he means to chastise Bucky until he catches a glimpse of his friend's incredulous expression. 'Never mind. They call themselves the European Catholic Union, now. Poland, Czechia, Hungary, Slovakia, Croatia, Slovenia, Italy..oh, and Austria. No more borders, no differences. It's a uniquely singular place, if you disregard the _very_ different languages.'

Steve shakes his head, as if a union of countries with different languages perturbs him more than aliens landing in New York, or a purple space tyrant with magic stones killing half of all living creatures in the universe.

'But yes,' he continues, 'I'd like that. I want to go to Budapest with you. I have a secret mission I'll need help with.'

'Well then, _Captain,_ ' Bucky tries to play the part of the cheeky friend, 'What's the plan?'

*

A funeral. Because, of course.

'It's still early days,' Bruce stammers, gesticulating widely in the thankfully-giant hall, given he'd probably demolish a smaller room with his body language. 'We haven't put all the exhibits out, and for some, it's not clear we _should_ be putting them out at all.' He glances at Steve, who nods in understanding.

'Where are you keeping her things,' he asks.

'We put one of the suits here, as you can see -' Bruce points to a black leather suit clothing a light gray marble statue in Natasha's likeness, poised for attack. Steve thinks she would appreciate it – the smooth exterior nothing sticks to – but then, she'd never seen herself as he had. In his mind, Natasha had never been quite as Teflon-like; her sticky, messy humanity what had ultimately lead to their friendship.

They pass by another marble statue – this one, red – Vision. A small yellow gem is carved into the forehead, the same color as the golden cape. One of Tony's early suits comes next – the helmet open to reveal a peach-colored cheeky grin unnervingly contrasted by the blank stare of the dead eyes. In the back of the room, a glass sculpture in various shades of blue and silver casts rainbows to the ground; an abstract wind-like frenzy of sharp edges and swirls. A pair of shabby sneakers lays inconspicuously below.

'Pietro,' Steve asks despite knowing the answer.

'Yes. It's only right, this wasn't the first war we fought.'

Steve sighs, thinking about Wanda. Will she come to this hall to talk to her family, now that they are all marble and glass? Lover, brother, sister. How does one carry on when life becomes a mausoleum?

'You've done a great job here, Bruce. I can't begin to understand how you managed it in a week, but it's beautiful.'

'Nat's stuff is through here,' Bruce shrugs off the compliment and points to a small door marked 'Private'. Steve looks at Bucky, who gestures him onward, turning to look up into the glass frescoed ceiling depicting the battle of New York: the first the Avengers had fought together. Iron Man looms large, casting pink shadows on the white sleek floor of the museum. Steve's blue suit is much less amenable to dramatic light art; it shines on the glass above, but the color doesn't quite reach the floor.

The crack of a door breaks Bucky's focus. Steve is already walking back towards him with a small cardboard box in his hands, Bruce following with slumped shoulders. That was quick.

'I wish I could come,' Bruce whispers to Steve as if Bucky couldn't hear him anyway, super-soldier serum or no. 'The government in the ECU is so antagonistic towards American superheroes now, it would be a nuisance for all involved. I'm not exactly unrecognizable, you know,' he says with what Bucky thinks is a hint of narcissism.

'I know, Bruce, don't worry about it. We'll let you know when we've made the arrangements. Clint can holo you in.' Steve's voice sounds like a father's would, comforting a child. Bucky suddenly wonders whether Steve and Peggy had had children – children who would be alive, adults, old even. He then mentally kicks himself for not thinking of it before, not asking. Even with the idea at the front of his mind, he still knows he won't. 

'Thanks,' Bruce replies and Steve pats his huge back, the scene slightly comical. Even with the size difference, though, Bucky can see through the surface and to him, it is obvious Steve towers over the green professor in every way a person can. Strong words, for someone he doesn't know anymore.

The two unlikely heroes walk to the center of the room, where Bucky was looking in the direction of the young Old Steve's shield, or rather the pieces that were left of it, after his fight with Thanos.

'She called me a fossil once, you know. Wonder what she'd come up with now. It isn't funny if it's true.' Steve shrugs and turns to Bruce. 'Do you think she'd like that,' he asks. 'Budapest?'

'She definitely would've found it _funny,'_ Bruce muses. 'But in the end, I think she just would've wanted her family to be there.'

Steve lets out a long sigh, decades in the making, and squeezes Bruce's arm one last time. They look at each other, and Bucky sees some of the apprehension he feels about New Steve in Banner's eyes. Steve senses it too, because before they leave, he lingers on the edge of the large hall and calls back to the Hulk.

'I never forgot,' he says loudly enough to echo, ricocheting against the marble statues as if to include them all in the statement. A checklist of casualties too long to be counted or named. Banner huffs, but doesn't otherwise acknowledge it. Steve walks out of the compound with sure, fast steps, reaching the sleek black car ready to take them to the airport in half the time it took them to come in. 

*

'Budapest, here we come,' Bucky sulks when the heavy silence between Steve, Sam and Clint threatens to flush all the oxygen out of the cabin. Sam can't suppress a chuckle, for which Bucky is thankful when Steve turns in his seat with the intention of scolding him. Seeing that Sam is amused and Clint already snoring, he gives up. No fun without an appreciative audience to egg on your moralizing, Bucky speculates.

*

The four of them descend to the lowest step of the river bank beneath the Chain bridge. There are none of the cruise ships usually anchored to the platform – Bucky doesn't know _how_ he knows this, the fact materializes seemingly out of nowhere and is gone as quickly when he decides not to prod his memory further. So, Budapest, we meet _again_ after all.

Wanda is still M.I.A., but Clint is holding a small electronic device in his hand, from which a shiny Bruce-like figure protrudes, almost material against the darkness of the city-scape across the river. This is also unusual, Bucky's mind supplies – the old fortress and the bridge should be generously lit, a show of exuberance to signal defiant pride for a history most visitors would be oblivious to. Electricity shortages, he surmises, are enough to temper even the most hardcore nationalism.

'So how do we do this?' Sam asks.

'I think we just.. say goodbye. However we want to,' Steve muses, opening the wooden chest to reveal a pair of old dirty-pink ballet shoes inside and a round of Black Widow's Bites rolled and stacked beside them. Clint passes phone-Bruce to Sam to take out an envelope from the inside of his jacket. He loads its contents into the chest one by one. They're postcards from Budapest, Bucky realizes, varying wildly in style and apparent age.

'It was an inside joke,' he shrugs. 'We'd never been to Budapest together. The story was made up so SHIELD wouldn't catch drift of what really happened.. in the _other_ city.'

Both Sam and Steve turn to him wide-eyed. Bucky grins. _Smart girl_.

'Care to share _now_ , Clint' Steve groans.

'Nah, it's always been between Nat and me. That's how it stays.'

'Shouldn't we maybe be in this _other city_ though,' Sam asks waving the phone in a vague direction of 'elsewhere', forgetting to keep Bruce, who has become a pixelated green blob, straight.

'Definitely not. This is perfect.'

Sam, still visibly confused, passes a recovered Bruce back to Clint and fishes out a stack of Polaroids from his pocket, with photos from their Avengers and 'underground' years. There's one with everybody pushed in toward Steve and Tony: Nat, Wanda, Vision, Rhodey, Clint, Sam. The old gang. Two of Steve and Nat perched over different maps, discussing strategy. One of Wanda cooking something suspiciously purple while Scott and Nat share a horrified expression with the camera. The last one is Nat alone, looking out at the landscape in Wakanda, the city below her feet. She's stood at the roof edge of what appears to be a very tall building; her light hair reflecting the sunset, mirroring the orange Steve best remembers her wearing. 

'Maybe it doesn't seem like it, but I'm sentimental as Hell.'

The three of them, plus holo-Bruce, laugh at the admission which comes as no surprise.

'I'm glad you took these, Sam,' Steve replies.

'Even if she'd probably kill you because you were _obviously_ trying to take a photo of her ass here,' Clint adds.

'You're probably right,' Sam admits. 'It was – '

'Not now, hmm?' Steve cuts Sam's reply short as soon as he realizes where it's going, unable to help himself. Sam grins at Clint, who is also smiling and motioning towards Steve with wide eyes, in what is an unmistakable 'we need to behave in front of Grandpa' statement.

Bucky didn't have anything of Natasha's to share, no memories he was sure of apart from the fact he'd shot her once. Steve had told him of a joke she'd made, about not being able to wear bikinis after the encounter. _As if_. He produces a single slug – Soviet made – and drops it into the chest. He'd found it, serendipitously, among the things T'Challa had brought from his cottage in Wakanda.

'A late apology,' he says, unsure. Steve's face lights up in understanding.

'Thanks, Buck.'

Finally, it's Steve's turn. He lifts a tattered ID card from the Avengers tower for all to see (why hadn't he just put it in with the shoes and the weapons, Bucky wonders). The small piece of plastic slips sideways along the photos and into the chest. Steve lets out a long sigh, and Bucky thinks he can understand why he'd waited to part with the ID until this moment. There's something about the observance of ritual that structures the otherwise chaotic essence of pain; channels it into predictable patterns of movements both physical and emotional. Steve had never been that in touch with his feelings to be able to grieve in any other way.

'I've buried more friends and family I can count, but this still stings. Like the day after it happened, like so many years haven't passed between Nat's death and today for me. And though I'm sure she'd have a wise crack for that, for how long it's taken me to say goodbye, I also know she would've been proud of what we've accomplished. Not in small part due to her. Because we're proud _as Hell_ of her,' he seems to have finished before he adds, more quietly, 'Always have been.'

Clint nods and reiterates the sentiment.

 _'Always_ have been, kid.' He then constructs an elaborate cough-and-sneeze performance to brush away a tear sneaking down his cheek, about as inconspicuous as Bucky's cane. Bruce is equally subtle, concealing a sniffle with a Hulk-roar.

'Goodbye, old friend,' Steve finally says and closes the chest, which locks itself with a sharp click of some metal mechanism that was no doubt Bruce's doing. He bends awkwardly to the water's edge, the three men hovering close by to quickly respond lest his knees buckle and send him headfirst into the river. There's a quiet plop and the wooden chest bobs away on the murky water of the Danube. They look solemnly after it for what must be five minutes at least, given that the bells toll again, pulling everyone from wherever they'd gone to visit Nat's ghost and back to the riverside.

Sparing the direction of the small black dot one last look, Bucky wonders if, one day, Steve will do the same for him; the exact words catching in his throat. _Goodbye, old friend_. It stings, but he doesn't give the alternative a second thought: that _he_ might outlive Steve, and have to say the words in his stead.

*

The next day, Sam and Clint return to the US, clattering around the kitchen grumpily in the early morning, hung-over from the copious amounts of pálinka they'd consumed. Steve also appears to have been affected by the alcohol; another entry for the list of differences between Old and New Steve Bucky has been half-consciously compiling for future notice. By early afternoon, however, he seems to have regained his bearings and suggests a short walk downtown. Bucky is thankful, given he'd been starting to feel claustrophobic in the fancy-yet-surprisingly-small hotel suite.

Bucky walks casually and slowly in his tight black leather jacket and encore all-black attire – too casually and slowly, Steve thinks, for it not to be intentional. At least the cane has been forgotten at the hotel, he thinks recalling the absurd accessory. They pass by randomly peppered parks in the old town and beautiful-yet-hidden turn-of-the-century architecture; Bucky sometimes pointing to an intricate facade or beautifully laid out tile-work. Steve's neck aches from trying to keep up with the many things Bucky finds interesting about Budapest, but he welcomes the stiffness if it means his friend is engaged.

'You like it here, don't you,' he asks after the fifteenth art nouveau balustrade he's had to comment on.

'I guess,' Bucky is quick to reply. Just as quickly, he makes sure to qualify the response, 'Much as any other place.'

They pass by a large red-brick building they find is a farmer's market. The road carries them further through a wide avenue, before they decide to turn and explore the capillaries of the city, the narrow and secluded corners guidebooks rarely tell you about. They come across an old synagogue after a while, its ornaments almost modern-looking – and while Steve is admiring the lettering and the craftsmanship, Bucky is similarly transported down the road towards an open door of a building where, in the vast courtyard, four children are playing soccer. Their shouts of victory and grievances echo throughout the enclosed space they've claimed for their football field. There's a rueful smile on Bucky's face – distinctly Brooklyn, circa 1933, when his friend was still chasing DIY balls with the other kids in the neighborhood. Steve had been his trusty audience then too: never missing a match or a cheer when Bucky managed to turn a particularly hopeless situation into a victory. That had always been a skill of Bucky's, rising up to the challenge and coaxing a win where others would've resigned themselves to sure defeat.

Looking at him looking at the neighborhood children, Steve can't tell what Bucky's victory would be anymore. He _does_ know, however, it would wear a smile like the one dancing on his face now. As he stands beside his friend, Steve doesn't pay much thought to his own position in the world – having retired his victories to the dustbin of history – but maybe this last one, seeing Bucky settled and happy, could be the cherry on top of the proverbial cake. He knows he doesn't have much time left – not too little, either – but Bucky's happiness, he decides, is as good of a goal as any to chase in what remains.

'You look half-ready to join them,' he teases.

'Better than you, Mr. Ortiz, going to fetch the constable, are we?'

Steve is surprised to pick up on the reference, mind wandering back to the old neighborhood, the people who had been part of their day-to-day, for better or for worse. There was always a sense of community to be found after you'd scratched the surface of the usual misgivings and quarrels. Steve had found something similar in the Avengers in this era, but Bucky had never had the time to feel part of something quite like it again.

'Hey,' Steve asks, 'What'd you say we hang around here for a bit?'

Bucky turns with his right eyebrow almost scratching his hairline.

'Say what?'

'You, me, Budapest. A slightly bigger apartment,' Steve telegraphs. Then, for good measure, he adds 'Together.'

Bucky seems ready to ridicule the suggestion before the last word leaves Steve's mouth. He looks at the pavement where the tops of his leather lace-up boots casually scrape against one another as he kicks invisible stones toward the entrance of the building. Steve is about to rescind the offer, say he was joking – he didn't _really_ mean for them to stay in this city they have no connection to save a funeral, but Bucky shrugs – a shy and imperceptible movement that Steve still notices – before he says, 'Why not.'

'If you'd like that,' he's quick to add, more loudly.

'I would,' Steve replies, pensive, his gaze still on the children playing soccer in the overgrown courtyard. 'I think I'd like that very much.'

*

It's only a matter of days before they have an apartment to call theirs, in Steve's own name no less. Despite Pepper's pleas of finding a _proper_ house where _proper_ security measures can be taken, both Steve and Bucky are tired of being treated as special. They decide on a small, ground-floor apartment smack in the middle of the old Jewish neighborhood. Steve makes sure Pepper double-checks it isn't an apartment that used to belong to one of the Returned, who might come to claim it when the bureaucratic mess in the ECU is over. Pepper reassures him it had in fact been one of CIA's covert locations, which they had no use for now, given that international operations had been called off indefinitely.

'Pity,' Steve says, not without a healthy dose of schadenfreude.

'Try not to look the gift horse in the mouth, Steven,' Pepper chides, but her heart's not in it. Steve can't begin to grasp where her mind is at, taking over as interim director for the Avengers (the _new_ Avengers, he corrects himself) so soon after Tony's death, but if the glimpses he'd caught of her on the battlefield are anything to go by - he thinks she'll do a better job than him, and probably Tony.

'You're right, I'm sorry,' he agrees through the holo. 'It will do perfectly, Peggy.' He doesn't realize his blunder until he sees her face melt into a perfect portrait of pity and compassion. ' _Pepper_. Sorry. Old habits.'

She nods and gives a short wave of the hand before ending the connection. While Steve hadn't been completely convinced an ex-base-of-operations would make a welcoming home for Bucky and himself, arriving at the address leaves him with no doubts about Pepper's decision.

What seems like a derelict building from the outside hides in its center a veritable jungle of potted plants and chairs strewn across the courtyard not unlike the one in which they'd witnessed the soccer match. Steve can tell from looking at the plants and the outdoor furniture they are well kept and cared for, if old and showing signs of wear and tear. The place feels lived-in, just as he remembers Brooklyn being, with a similar air of poverty to match his Depression era filter, too. The fresh, healthy plants in tattered pots and clean, shabby curtains behind barred windows tell a story about the people here; their stubborn defiance toward label and circumstance. There might not be any children playing now, but he wouldn't be surprised to find them come Saturday morning.

'What do you think,' he turns to ask Bucky who insisted on carrying the little luggage they brought himself.

Bucky scoffs, says 'I don't know, Steve,' his eyes darting around the vast space appreciatively, the same thoughts probably going through his mind. _Home_. A good replica, at least.

Of course, Steve has had many homes in-between the time when he'd shared one with Bucky and now. It isn't unusual, he reassures himself, to be this moved by the sudden rehash of that first concept, though. After all, that was what Bucky had always been to him: the boy who saved newspapers so Steve could shove them into his too-big shoes, the young man working extra shifts to slip medicine into his drawer when he thought Steve wasn't looking, the fearless soldier who always had his back; his rock, his best friend, the first solid thing Steve had laid claim to. _His_ Bucky. Isn't it strange, Steve wonders, that at a hundred-and-some, he still sees the same amalgamation of all things Bucky has been: _to_ him, _for_ him, for himself; and categorizes the man standing in front of the door not as something that _belongs_ to him, not necessarily, but a soul so inextricably bound with his own that it's hard to imagine himself without its familiar tug. Even the decades he'd spent with Pegs weren't void of him – Steve had always known he would be waiting at the end of the line, just as he'd remembered. There would be no end, not without the two of them side by side.

When they finally enter the apartment, Steve acknowledges that the inside is slightly less impressive than its surroundings, but he also decides this can easily be amended. The deceptively small hallway opens to a large open-plan living room space, a kitchen tucked at its end and a round, sturdy dining table in the middle.

'I guess this is where the knights decided the fate of the realm,' Bucky deadpans, running the fingers of his flesh hand over the dark polished surface. Steve inspects the large armchair positioned next to a sofa in a similar design – both an inoffensive gray – not too old-fashioned, but hardly new, with a small coffee table in-between.

There are fresh white peonies in a simple glass vase at the center of the table – the only living thing in the space as far as Steve can tell, and doubtlessly Pepper's design. When he raises his head from smelling the flowers, Bucky is nowhere to be seen. Steve follows him through the open door at the side of the kitchen, which leads to another little hallway with three doors marking the points of a perfectly symmetrical triangle. Suspecting the top one to be the bathroom, he turns to his left and finds what is supposed to be a bedroom, in the minds of the CIA at least. Bucky isn't inside, so Steve presumes he's chosen the other one. Though bare, the room isn't uninhabitable: it just needs some work. Steve starts by making a mental note of all the books he would like to have at hand, planning how to arrange the bookshelves for his optimal convenience (nothing too low, or too high). He also decides the gray carpet, gray bedding and gray duvet have to go, sooner preferably to later. He might be old, but he's not dead inside. The planning takes all of his attention, so he doesn't notice Bucky leaning against the doorframe.

'I was gonna say I got the gray room, but maybe that wouldn't be pinpointing it, exactly.'

Steve turns to see the room behind Bucky's back with the doors now open, an uncanny replica of the one he's standing in. Only, the room Steve wandered into is on the side of the apartment that looks out into the courtyard, whereas Bucky's doesn't have a window at all.

'Wanna swap,' he casually inquires.

'Nah. I prefer less possible entry points, as it happens,' Bucky shrugs, reading his mind.

'Okay. I was thinking, I'll order a couple of things – books, blankets, maybe some extra furniture that's not gray. In case you want to get in on that, save Pepper the shipping costs.'

Bucky lifts his eyebrows but says nothing, retreating into the twin-gray room that has become his in the last minute.

'Depends on how long this is for,' Steve hears him mumble, unsure if Bucky had actually intended to be heard. His hearing is still much better than any 100+ year old's.

Even a 100+ year old, however, would be woken up by the noise that propels him from the bed that night, or early morning – 4:48 AM, according to the digital clock on his nightstand. At first he thinks it must be a nightmare – his, or Bucky's – but the commotion is definitely coming from outside his head and the apartment. Before he can even sit up in the bed (gray, so gray, even in the meager light), Bucky is storming through the door and jumping onto the empty corner of the bed near the window in a show of grace and stealth Steve had rarely been privy to. He feels somewhat embarrassed by his own slow reflexes until he remembers Bucky is _at least_ sixty years younger.

'What's happening,' Steve asks offhandedly, like they haven't both been roused from sleep by a combination of shrieking and shouting, followed by distinctly slamming noises which Steve assumes are the neighbors' windows.

'Female subject, chasing male subject crying out for help with what appears to be a kitchen knife.'

Steve decides not to address the mission-report structure of Bucky's reply and perches up on the bed against him to peer through the window himself.

'What do you think we should do,' he asks, even if he's already decided.

'Could be a trap,' Bucky counters, reading his thoughts.

'Unlikely, don't you think?'

'Unlikely,' Bucky agrees. 'Don't move. I'll deal with it.'

The couple have already reached the first floor by the time Bucky jumps out of the bed and heads for the door. Steve knows his friend is right in telling him to stay put, but he was never one to readily obey orders. He watches through the window long enough to see Bucky melt into the shadow of the staircase before moving to stand in the entrance to their apartment. He inspects the building top to bottom, noticing some lights going on and the shuffling of curtains, the neighbors peering through to get their fill of the show. Both the shuffling and lights have stopped when Bucky reaches the woman and makes short work of disarming her, the man fading quickly out of sight.

A light goes on in an apartment opposite theirs. The curtains shuffle, but the light doesn't go out to Steve's surprise. Instead, an old woman emerges from the green door, walking decisively toward Bucky in a pale-blue nightgown. Steve makes a movement to intercept her, but she waves him away with her hand like an afterthought.

' _Rendben, drága_ ,' she repeats over and over, untangling the young assailant from Bucky's firm grasp after whispering something Steve can't hear. Bucky lets go of his sobbing prey, her knife still in the metal hand he'd forgotten to conceal in the uproar. The older woman turns to him halfway to her door and nods. Bucky nods back and returns to Steve's side.

'I told you to stay put,' he hisses as he elbows his way into the apartment. Steve can hear the clatter of a knife being thrown into the kitchen sink before complete silence descends on the building once more. Unable to help his curiosity, Steve knocks perfunctorily before letting himself into Bucky's room. His friend is sitting high up on the bed, his back against the wall, staring intently at his feet.

'Bucky,' Steve asks stupidly.

'Yes, still me.'

'What happened?'

Bucky draws out a sigh to signal he's _already_ bored by this conversation.

'I don't know, Steve. A woman attacked her husband in the middle of the night, in their bedroom, with a knife. Is that the game?'

Steve doesn't understand the reference – if there is one – but he's also not ready to give up.

'What did the neighbor say?'

'She told me it was the husband. I don't know, I didn't catch all of it – my Hungarian's somewhat rusty. Something like.. it's her husband, but she's confused and doesn't recognize him. Or doesn't think it's him. Something confusing like that.'

'Damn,' Steve exhales, sitting on the edge of Bucky's bed. 'How does that happen?'

It's not a question he expects an answer to, more of a general expression of incredulity. Bucky, however, replies.

'He's one of the Returned.'

Steve flinches at the word which has already begun to take on negative connotations. He's glad Bucky can't see this reaction, given that they're in complete darkness. Then he remembers Bucky is a super-soldier as well, like Steve used to be, and that fifty years ago the absence of natural light would've meant nothing to him. He slowly stands up and feels his way toward his twin-gray bedroom with hands against the wall and feet carefully inspecting the way.

'What a mess we've made of the world, right,' he can't help but say, though Bucky has no share in the blame, as well Steve knows. When he doesn't answer, instead of expanding on what he truly meant to say – how he was the one responsible for the madness that had transpired: because he hadn't been able to make his peace with Tony, because he had been too weak for sacrifices (or too vain to think he was beyond them); because Thanos, because time, because.. so many contingencies he'd replayed in his mind millions of times in his life since – Steve squeezes a whispered 'See you in the morning' into the moment before he closes the door shut.

*

In the morning, however, Bucky is gone – _long_ gone, by the look of it – and Steve can't replay the conversation about last night's excitement. He finds a hastily written note on a post-it next to the stove, Bucky predicting Steve's first movements of the day with scary accuracy.

' _Gone to check in with Sam about something. Back in a few days, will call if delayed. Bucky_ '

Steve is suddenly less motivated to brew tea, knowing it'll serve only one. A rustling noise traveling from the open window beckons him to the front door, which he readily unlocks and steps out into an all-but-deserted courtyard. The old lady who'd taken the culprit of last night's commotion into her flat is already out and about, gardening of all things. Steve observes with interest as she waters the many flower pots under her window, shearing dead leaves and stems here and there animatedly. When she notices him leaning against the door frame, she waves at him in the same casual manner from earlier in the morning, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.

'American,' she loudly asks, her voice crackling and smoky yet still pleasant, like an old jazz recording.

'Yeah,' Steve shouts back at her, probably too loudly.

'Coffee,' she says – more a statement than a question. Steve contemplates his options for a few seconds, pretending he has more than the choice between coffee and tea, alone or with the unusual neighbor.

'Your place of mine,' he smiles and asks in a more appropriate volume as the woman motions toward her door with garden shears in hand. _Some invitation_ , Steve thinks, making his way slowly across the red and white tiles to her eccentrically green wooden door, breaking the neat succession of sturdy, burglar-proof monstrosities. He notices her windows are also different for their absence of iron bars – a cursory look toward the higher floors makes him think she's probably the only person in the whole building not to have them. For reasons unknown, this instantly endears her to Steve, even more than the previous night's show of dangerous compassion. As he enters the dark hallway encased on all sides by bookshelves brimming with haphazardly stacked hardcovers and yellowing magazines, he is reminded instantly of Peggy's family home in England. Even the smell is the same – decaying leather, whiffs of centuries old cigarette smoke that has embedded itself in the pores of the pages, a sprinkling of dust, an undercurrent of wax and roses.

'Coffee, I suppose, American?', he hears from somewhere deep in the apartment. He can still pinpoint the exact location of the sound; his supernatural hearing starkly resisting the maladies of old age.

When he reaches the small, dark kitchen where she is fiddling with the gas ring on the stove, he takes a seat at the small table in the back. Yesterday's newspapers are opened to an article about the bureaucratic impediments to the Returned's reintegration – that much is clear even with his pitiful knowledge of Hungarian.

'Actually, I've been somewhat conditioned to take tea in the morning, if you'll believe it. But I think... today, it'd better be coffee. _Long night_.'

'Indeed,' his host chuckles and turns to face him after filling an odd-looking bronze kettle with water and leaving it crookedly perched atop the iron gas burner to boil. 'So,' she begins, as if starting a class. 'I am Éva. You are American. In Budapest, Hungary. Pardon, Budapest, the European Catholic Union.' She rolls her eyes conspiratorially at Steve and he nods in approval of her unsaid judgment. 'Very strange, you must see. How long are you here? Oh, and your name, of course, I do not know? Forgive me, my curiosity goes...' Éva makes a running gesture with her fingers and then something akin to fireworks with both of her hands. Steve finds he doesn't mind being interrogated, for once. 'So many questions. So long since I have seen a new neighbor. Well, completely new. Not the new old ones, of course.'

'It's very nice to meet you, Éva. My name is Steven, Steve for short. As for how long I'll be here, I honestly have no clue. I guess that sounds strange? It sounds strange for me to say it, if you'll believe me.'

'I will believe you, _István_.' Steve cocks his eyebrows. 'Your name, in Hungarian. I do not like Steve very much. Sounds so modern. We are _old_ people, we need old names, yes?'

'I suppose so. Steven is a very old name, though. As old as me, at least.'

'Not old enough, ah,' she jokes. 'In my book. Maybe you will just indulge your odd – old – neighbor, hm?'

'Of course. But you don't strike me as _that_ old.'

'American, through and through,' Éva laughs to herself and winks. She's indeed an odd creature, now that Steve has had more time to make out a first impression. For one, she's not being hyperbolic when she says she's _old_ , despite his awkward attempt at flattery. Steve feels somewhat apprehensive to put a number on a lady's age, even in the privacy of his own mind, but he thinks she has to be in her nineties. She is plump so her skin doesn't sag around the mischievous face, but her hands betray her – the paper-thin, dotted skin creased around the little remaining flesh like cellophane, revealing the green and purple veins coiling over her bones. Much like his own. The way her emerald eyes sharpen each stare also reveals an experience Steve had often seen in the men he'd served with back in that first war of his, and especially – in Peggy.

'Let us get that out of the way, then,' Éva says casually as she positions herself opposite Steve at the small table, much to the chair's squeaking protestation. 'Csillag Éva – or Éva Stern, as I was born, in 1925, in the Kingdom of Hungary, two years after the fall of the Habsburg Monarchy. Daughter of Miriam Weiss, born in Zagreb, David Stern, born in Budapest – both dead in Oświęcim. You understand, yes?'

Steve nods, overcome with an old guilt he'd almost completely repressed, and that re-surges now with double its potency due to the shame of forgetting. All those people - if only they'd known; had listened to the whispers back before his single-minded goal to get to Zola and Schmidt had overshadowed every other objective. Before Bucky...

'Surprised?' Éva's voice pulls him back. 'A lot of people would be, I suppose. I _love_ disappointing them.'

Steve huffs in agreement and lifts the small cup of coffee Éva has just placed on the table towards her, as if it were alcohol. Reading his mind, she shakes her head and produces two small shot glasses, at once full to the brim with a disconcertingly colorless liquid. 

'Vodka in the morning,' he quizzes, unsure.

' _Please_ ,' Éva laughs and lifts the small glass.

'Cheers,' Steve earnestly toasts, skeptical as he is about downing the unknown liquor. 'Or how would you say it around these parts?'

' _Egészségedre_ ,' Éva exclaims clinking her glass against Steve's. ' _To your health._ '

'To your health,' Steve repeats, not ready yet to tackle Hungarian pronunciation. The liquid is smooth and warms his insides pleasantly, though unquestionably in the 30 and over range of alcohol volume.

'Good, this,' he coughs. Éva chuckles. 

Ninety-eight – almost as old as him, Steve thinks, baffled – and yet so obviously enjoying this odd moment with a strange man in her kitchen. He observes the wiry curls of dark silver casually set into a tangle on the top of her head, the golden ruby earrings bracketing her face with small teardrops – _drops of blood, more likely_. Her unusual burgundy robe is embroidered with gold thread, the origin of which he can't place geographically. She seems far from finished, even less so than most young people he's met. Éva sparks with one thing only: curiosity.

'Your English is extraordinary,' he says at last, unsure where else to direct the conversation. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes she could find construe them as condescending and mentally prepares for an apology, but finds there is no need. Éva nods with obvious satisfaction. 

'I spent some years in New York with my uncle, when I was a young girl. Or should I say, young- _er_.'

'In the forties,' Steve says redundantly.

'In the forties,' she confirms.

'Lower East side?'

'Where else,' she chuckles.

'Brooklyn, me,' Steve says, although he hasn't lived there in almost 80 years. He sets the response aside in his mind, to be inspected by some future iteration of himself.

'I _knew_ you sounded familiar. We used to chase you Brooklyn boys, my cousins and me, if we were feeling _particularly_ rebellious.'

'We Brooklyn boys never dared go anywhere near you Lower East Side girls,' Steve jokes. 'What did you do after? After New York?'

'I came back to Europe to study. Budapest, Vienna, then back to Budapest. It was my plan when I was a girl, you see, so I thought – my mother would be terribly ashamed if I did not follow through.'

At the mention of her mother, Éva's face softens. She taps the tip of her finger on the cup's edge in a rhythm Steve can't place, but can nevertheless tell comes with a melody.

'What did you study?'

' _Psychoanalysis_ ,' she answers with an expression of wonder, as if she can't believe it herself. 'Medicine, to start. But I was never one for blood, not the literal kind.'

Steve thinks he would've guessed as much, with the way she talks: incisively, with something left brimming under the obvious. She has an air akin to an academic – not the regular know-how he'd seen in people of all shapes and sizes in his time – and definitely not the loud kind he had once been used to from Tony and, in a somewhat milder version, Bruce. A quieter knowledge, which finds no use of self-advertisement.

'That's very interesting. You know, I was a counselor for a brief time. A very bad one, I sadly have to report.'

'It is difficult,' Éva sighs. 'So many things outside the scope of human understanding. First you are here, then you are not, then...back. Poof! We are not made for such shock. We need time to process. Grieve. Let go. Embrace.'

Steve's attention is pulled back toward the newspaper on the table.

'What do you think of these new regulations then,' he asks. 'In a professional capacity, of course.'

Éva rolls her eyes, much like she had when mentioning the European Catholic Union before. Steve doesn't blame her, the change had made him cringe too all those decades ago. _His_ decades, to be precise, this world's mere couple of years. He hadn't thought about how the world would carry on after the Blip, if he was being honest – his thoughts had been consumed by other, more pressing political matters during the time he'd spent growing old with Pegs. And perhaps he'd been naive, thinking that reversing the evil Thanos had done would bring everything back to its original pre-Snap state; that everyone would be happy to rebuild. After the several weeks he's spent in this future, he was beginning to understand what a fool's hope that has been.

Countries - new ones formed after the Snap, as well as old that had managed to retain the integrity of their territories - are scrambling to figure out what to do with the citizens they've suddenly regained. Latin America had been almost deserted after the Snap, so the new influx of work power has been a godsend. The Scandinavian countries and Canada also welcomed their citizens' return and even extended the welcome to refugees from other parts of the world that had decided not to be as kind. The USA is accepting, if skeptical. China wants nothing to do with its Returned, pushing them out to the adjoining Asian countries that will take them. Very few do. Parts of Africa and the Balkans are similarly affected, what with the rise of new regimes and food rationing. Then there are 'new' countries like the European Catholic Union, ECU for short, which constructed Kafkaesque barriers for repatriation. All non-citizens, meanwhile, are to be detained and kept in camps – very generously referred to as 'assembly points' – fooling none but the most grateful to the new government.

Éva is animatedly complaining that the new regulations require five still-living family members or friends (who had not been Snapped) to come and reclaim each Returned person, at the same time signing off that they are willing to vouch for them and would not require any monetary assistance from the state to do so.

 _'Five_ ,' she repeats. 'How many of us can boast of a single one person ready to take responsibility for our life? Truly, to take our life in their hands and say – _I_ will keep you? There are so many sad bastards in this world, István, so few lucky ones.'

Steve wonders which category he'd fall into. He thinks about Peggy, and Bucky, and then Nat, Sam, Wanda, T'Challa, Thor, Howard, Sharon, Maria, Bruce, Tony, Pepper, Nick, Clint...lucky bastard, he concludes. Even if some of the people on his list are no longer living, there are plenty who would have saved him from ECU politics, at any point in time. _A lucky bastard indeed_ , he thinks, until Bucky's face comes to mind. Bucky, who had actually been vanished, which makes him one of the Returned. Who would vouch for Bucky? T'Challa, Shuri, Sam, if Steve asked them to. Steve, who is the only person who knows Bucky in this world – who Bucky truly is. Bucky, who is alone and new in a way not even the rest of the Returned are, still making his first attempts at walking on his own, chafing on the edges of each new day.

Banishing the thought lest he get too maudlin, Steve rejoins his conversation with Éva to see her studying him carefully.

'Which one of those are you,' he asks as politely as he can muster.

'Oh, István – I have survived much worse. Your Snaps and your Blips. In for a penny, in for a pound, it is what you say, no?' Steve shakes his head, although he's familiar with the saying. Éva carries on. 'Well, maybe not. You know, sometimes I wonder if I will ever die. How can I, having lived this long, gone through so much? What can kill me? But then we are both old, you know as well as me – death still comes. Slow, fast, who cares. My worry now is the world, István. I have lived in so many different countries, sometimes on the same plot of land, this same apartment. I wonder... can it be happening again? Is it possible?'

'What,' Steve asks before he has the chance to think it through.

'Groupthink,' Éva counters immediately, in a solemn voice that sounds less like a jazz tune now and more like an elegy. 'Conformity, silence, all leading to division.'

Steve contemplates the philosophical offering as she lights a cigarette ( _seriously?_ , he thinks, bewildered). The vanilla-scented smoke creates a barrier in the middle of the small table, curling from the tip of her cigarette and upwards to the ceiling as if being funneled by an see-through pipe. Or a chimney.

'In the end, it is always division, no? Our _original sin?_ ' Éva asks, not expecting a response. She takes another drag while the fingers of her other hand keep providing rhythm to the same ghostly melody from before, a musical backdrop for an unfolding tragedy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some general notes:
> 
> 1\. I'm taking the Russos' version of what happened to be true: Steve has been in a different timeline until a while after Peggy's death, he then time-traveled to the 'original' timeline, which is when we see him again as Old Steve by the lake, and from which point this diverges from the rest of the (future) MCU, including Spider-man: Far From Home. It doesn't make much of a difference for the story, but thought I'd get it out of the way lest anyone is left wondering.
> 
> 2\. In case the 9k+ prologue wasn't a giveaway, I feel the need to warn any soul that comes across this that I *mean* slow when I say Slow Burn. I'm interested in exploring the post-Snap/post-Blip world in all its glorious potential for political upheaval and collective trauma, almost as much as I am in writing Steve and Bucky towards the realistically happy ending we all know they deserve. So while I understand the need for closure and getting-to-the-point, note that this story will probably take a while to reach either.
> 
> 3\. I profusely apologize for any grammar/spelling/punctuation mistakes, especially my use of 'these' instead of "regular quotations marks". My keyboard is broken beyond the hope of recovery in the near future.


	2. Bad News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The post-Blip world is turning out to be far from the utopia Steve had imagined, where all things are returned to their rightful place. With bad news coming in daily, the doubts he'd left behind in the-other-timeline are rearing their ugly heads again. Meanwhile, Bucky is struggling to reconcile the memories of his friend he'd fought so hard to recover with the old man who now goes by Steve Rogers. A visit from Sam and a conversation with Éva send them on a trajectory towards a much-needed, if painful, conversation, and a bonus epiphany about the past on Bucky's side. It ends like things often do, with a splash of poetry and a bucketful of heartbreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks so much to everyone who has clicked on/read/subscribed/left kudos on this story – it being a first for me, it's encouraging to see what is an unexpected number of you lovely people interested in the way I imagined Steve and Bucky's journey could evolve from (the end of) Endgame.
> 
> Secondly, I thought I'd include not a playlist, but a 'frame of mind' musical accompaniment for Steve and Bucky in this chapter, that is to say, the music I was listening to while writing, which was mostly The Slow Show.  
> [Hard to Hide](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=weGHO1MNMvc) is the song I felt resonated most with 'my Steve', and [Strangers Now](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iuFFyfcwljc) with Bucky. They're beautiful pieces of art in their own right, so I'd encourage you to listen to them even if you don't care much about their relation to the story.
> 
> Finally, content warnings for this chapter include mentions of mental illness, war, death and mass suicides. If you think any of these might move you in the wrong way, please tread carefully or not at all, and remember to put your safety before all else.

**WHO: Suicide Outbreaks Soon To Be Classified As Pandemic**

'We are receiving concerning data from all over the world,' Regina Greaves, head of the World Health Organization, said in a press conference early Monday to the assembled international press.

'There is an undeniable spike in suicide rates that's almost as high as the one we last saw in the month following the Snap. Our analyses of the trend leave little room for optimism.'

When questioned by reporters about possible links between the post-Snap and post-Blip suicides, she declined to comment, appealing to the press as well as the science community to exercise 'utmost sensitivity and caution in drawing any conclusions which might adversely affect the population.'

'This is not the time for speculation,' Greaves ended her short address. 'In the future, there will doubtless be a need to examine all hypotheses and factors related to the surge, but I urge all my fellow scientists, as well as the general public and media outlets, to abstain from publishing commentaries and research reports, academic or otherwise, that speculate on the issue at this moment.'

(Graham Ford for The Guardian, November 13 2023)

*

Steve closes the Guardian tab and returns to clicking random books into his basket. He'd prefer visiting a physical bookstore and picking them up from the shelves himself – testing their weight in his hands, smelling the paper – but the ECU doesn't have a large variety of books in English on offer. As if to underscore his thoughts, the bells from the nearby church start ringing, their further-away cousins joining in as if to make a cocoon of pious vibrations around the city and – Steve can imagine – the entire country. These reminders have begun to create a sense of claustrophobia in him, what he'd imagined Project Insight or Tony's around-the-world shield would've felt like to a regular Joe – a surface sheen of safety cracking to reveal the distrust underneath.

It's ten a.m., his tea has already gotten lukewarm in the gray mug (Steve makes a mental note for later: order mugs and plates in _any_ other color). Bucky has been gone since seven, if the shuffling in the small corridor was anything to go by. Steve had been awake, but given Bucky's stealthiness decided against getting up and asking him about his plans for the day. If he'd wanted, Bucky would've knocked to say goodbye. Left a note. Done anything, really, instead of sneaking out. His friend has spent more time on missions with Sam or out and about – where exactly he goes, Steve doesn't know, but he can attest to his absence. It strikes him as peculiar – after all, Bucky had seemed ready to throw in the proverbial towel long before it had crossed Steve's own mind. Talking to him about it, however, would require the man to actually be present and willing to engage for longer than a fifteen minute joint dinner, or a brush of the shoulders in the corridor on the way to their respective bedrooms.

Steve is adding the fifth not-gray mug he can find into the virtual basket when he hears a tap on the window. When he looks up, he knows he'll see Éva, but for a split second he _hopes_ for Bucky's face behind the glass. His mornings become maudlin meditations on loneliness when Bucky isn't there – especially on days when the news is bad, which Steve comes to realize has been _every day_ since his return. It's not the absence of people in general that nudges him toward what he's come to refer to as his Grandpa-glumness, but the distinct hole in the fabric of the day made in the shape of his friend. That's not to say he doesn't enjoy the newfound camaraderie with their neighbor – because he does.

'Alone again,' Éva says in a statement not even trying to disguise itself as a question when he opens the door.

'Seems so. Care to join me?'

'If I may.'

The pleasantries are exchanged perfunctorily, as she shuffles into the apartment beside Steve before he even extends the invitation. It's been two weeks since him and Bucky moved in, and Steve has seen her ten out of the fourteen days. Long enough, he thinks, to know she probably has hundreds of odd, exotic-looking gowns. Today is another favorite: a particularly orange cloud of soft fabric tied in the manner of a sari over her short and stodgy frame, her fingernails painted in a similarly offensive neon shade. A cloud of tobacco and sandalwood settles engulfs the living room as she sits and motions for him to fetch her an ashtray, a smoke already in hand, produced from the folds of the dress as a magician would a bunny from a top-hat. Steve thinks he'd much prefer a bunny right now, but brings the small saucer he'd relegated to ashtray duty regardless. How she's survived to be ninety-eight is beyond him.

'Our James is gone again,' she sighs in mock-sadness, making herself comfortable in Steve's armchair.

'Yes,' he mumbles distractedly while turning on the electric kettle on the counter.

'He is away often,' she doesn't relent. Steve can feel her eyes boring into his back as he fiddles with the boxes in the cupboard, pretending to be looking for the tea staring right at his face. He's certain Éva is aware of this fact, but hopes she'll play along.

'Earl Gray or English Breakfast?'

'It is all brown water to me.'

'I know someone who'd shoot you for saying that,' Steve smiles; an expression of fondness which disappears when he realizes he's used the incorrect tense.

'They can try,' Éva laughs. 'But tell me, where _is_ young James?'

'Oh, Bucky's got a very... demanding job. Takes him all around.'

'Something exciting and secret, yes?' Her eyes widen with interest, but at the sight of Steve's deer-in-the-headlights expression she quickly flicks her cigarette as if brushing the question aside herself. He's grateful not to be interrogated on this count, at least.

'Why this sudden interest in Bucky?'

'Oh István, come – a pair of Americans move to an apartment empty for years in my building: an old man and a young one with a prosthetic arm. You would not be curious?'

'I guess so. Sound like the beginning of a joke, doesn't it? Two Americans, one old, one with a prosthetic arm, move into a house in Budapest...'

'What is the punchline, hm?'

Steve stares at the tea steeping in the mug.

'I don't know. Yet, anyway.'

'Did you used to work for the same...people?'

'Nah, no. Well. Yes and no. Depends on the _when_.'

'And you like young James?' The way she says it makes Steve squirm. Is it because the answer is so obvious? Of course he _likes_ Bucky.

'He's my friend. Trust me, I know that sounds weird.'

'A special friend?'

'Yes,' Steve shoots, before it dawns on him how the reply could be misconstrued. He blushes and stammers, 'Oh, but no, no, not – not _like that_.'

Éva laughs loudly, coughing a bit through the last couple of bouts and comforting Steve anything _like that_ hadn't crossed her mind at all. He is extremely suspicious.

'There is something about your friend, István, I cannot put my finger on, yes? A _nervous_ sorrow. He looks at you, when you do not look at him – I notice this. Like he expects you to go _poof_ , at any moment. And it is not just because you are old.'

Steve thinks how achingly paradoxical her impression is, considering he'd been the one to watch Bucky vanish into thin air.

*

**CAPTAIN _WHAT_? DOCTOR _WHO_? Cassandra Bellock Speaks Out Against 'Unregulated Vigilantes'**

Likely presidential candidate and post-Snap NY senator Cassandra Bellock went on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert to discuss the upcoming early elections. She defined the basis of her hypothetical platform as focused on governmental control and transparency in dealing with what she described as superhuman and alien threats.

'Were we consulted – the people of America and her elected officials – about _any_ of the decisions made by the vigilante group known as the Avengers,' she said in a heated debate with the host who pointed out that most would call the team American heroes. 'I'm sure _some_ would,' the Senator agreed. 'But _some wouldn't_ , and my job is to make sure the voices of both these groups are heard, to decide which one has the majority. Heck, it's there in the name. _Avengers._ '

After scattered laughter and surprisingly vigorous applause, Bellock continued: 'We can't go on like we have, Stephen, I'm sorry. Rules exist for a reason – and they need to apply to everyone or nobody at all. When the latter is true, what you get is _anarchy_. We've gotten a taste for that as a country in the brief moment after the Snap before we pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps. Just this morning, I look at the news and see this new Captain America pummeling five men around a neighborhood in my constituency. Was I consulted? Were the police? A few blocks down, you have so-called _Doctor Strange_ trapping people in green orbs and whatnot. Law enforcement isn't a child's video-game, Stephen. Besides, where were these people in the last five years? Tell me, for that matter, where is Steve Rogers now? The public deserves to have their questions answered.'

When Colbert countered the men being pummeled were members of the new terrorist organization, known to the public as the Saved Souls, who had been planning an attack on a downtown shelter for the Returned, Bellock shrugged: 'We simply don't know, without an official investigation. It seems to me, there's plenty of guilt to go around on all sides, don't you think?'

Twitter erupted with both praise for the strong stance and disgust. Some perceived Bellock's statements as thinly veiled anti-Blip rhetoric, which has recently been gaining traction in large urban areas where the number of the Returned has created food and electricity shortages.

Several high-ranking military officers came out in support of the senator using the hashtag #brassforcass. When asked to comment, General McCaffrey – who first used the hashtag – said: 'It's time America is given back to its people, its military and police who have sworn to protect them. Senator Bellock is the woman who can get the job done.'

(Mary King, BuzzFeed News, November 20 2023)

*

'FYI, I did not _pummel_ anyone. I _disarmed_ and _took into custody_. This is some bullshit.'

Bucky looks at Steve, because he still expects his friend to come up with a great speech on the spot. Steve, however, says nothing – he sits in the damned armchair that makes him look a hundred (younger than he actually is, Bucky bitterly notes), and clenches his fists. Sam has chosen a similar position on the sofa, only he radiates anger in contrast to Steve's annoyed indifference.

'You don't have to justify yourself, Sam. I've seen for myself.'

'Yeah, I know. Too bad the folks over on Twitter haven't. Might make it easier to do my job.'

'Were they really trying to blow up a shelter,' Steve asks out of nowhere.

'Yeah,' Sam says, deflating. 'There were children there too, man, a whole orphan wing. These Saved Souls are a whole new flavor of crazy.'

Steve's fists clench even more, jade veins jumping in tandem with a dangerously elevated heartbeat. Bucky decides he has enough to deal with without New Steve getting a heart attack, so he jumps to his feet and shoots Sam a knowing look.

'How about we three strapping young men get our assess off this furniture and hit the town for the afternoon,' he says with a swagger he expects Steve would expect from Bucky (that's a lot of work: all the recursions he goes through each time he speaks to his friend).

'I'm game,' Sam is quick to agree. 'Some of that pálinka goodness would sure help get Bellock's smug face off my mind. What about you, Goldie?'

Bucky smirks at Steve's drawn-out sigh at the new nickname Sam's determined to make stick.

'I'll do what you two do. Only slower.'

*

Once they've walked Sam back to his hotel, Steve finally senses an opportunity to catch up with Buck – a strange thing to say about one's flatmate. Sam's visit and the suitcase of troubling information he'd brought along for his 'weekend getaway' had put him in a sour mood, but strolling along the Danube after a couple of shots of hard liquor he can finally – after decades – feel the effects of, the earlier inner chaos has turned to a melancholy stillness. He doesn't even mind that Bucky had failed to mention the terrorist organization Sam had talked about. By now, he's used to Bucky's lips being snapped shut like a seashell, expecting only rare pearls of wisdom or dark sarcasm from his friend. As they pass below the looming House of Parliament, the only building the ECU has ominously decided to keep lit up on the whole stretch, he finds the courage to pierce the companionable silence at last.

'I never imagined _this_ was the future I was coming back to,' he says awkwardly.

It is at once clear this was a disastrous way to start a bonding attempt, because Bucky's eyebrows scrunch in what appears to be pain. He says nothing for at least another twenty meters – the only way Steve can tell the time because every second stretches both backwards and forwards, encompassing a life in which Bucky is still absent, or worse – he's not, but he wants nothing to do with Steve. He'd missed Buck so much; thought about seeing his friend again for the longest time – thoughts that turned into plans during the last couple of years when Steve knew his return was imminent: Budapest first, then whatever Bucky needed, wherever he wanted to go. It didn't matter to him as long as they were – finally – together, because it wasn't just his new, time-displaced life Steve had spent without his pal: Bucky had been missing even before. The wish to have him back, Steve realizes, the _idea_ of the two of them reunited, had turned into an ideal reality would never come close to. He should've known, having had plenty experience with the myriad ways in which history had already conspired to keep them apart. He'd been prepared for evil scientists, mad alien tyrants, the world, even. What hadn't crossed his mind as a potential obstacle was Bucky himself.

'Just because you threw in the towel, did you think the other side would, too?'

The words sound confused, Bucky's tone reluctant.

'I didn't _throw in the towel_ ,' Steve begins, an introduction to a thought-out defense he'd carefully constructed for himself, during thousands of evenings Peggy was at work or at sleep, when the voices from a past that was actually the future would come to haunt him. All the meticulously reasoned arguments seem unexpectedly flimsy now, when inspected from real Bucky's point of view, whose judgment is the only one that matters.

'I was tired,' Steve finally whispers, throwing pretense to float away on the night waters. For once, the weight of the statement is heard in his voice. Even more quietly, he adds, 'I thought you of all people would understand. The helplessness.'

Though Steve doesn't elaborate, Bucky's posture shifts in what looks like acceptance. How much his friend truly understands is anyone's guess. Steve considers the list of all his monumental defeats, seared deeply onto the sleek surface of his brain, still as bloody as they were born – out of battle, insanity, his own incompetence to decide the right course of action. The scars left behind oddly resemble Bucky's face – his first one, which Steve remembers most clearly and has drawn dozens if not hundreds of times – an eager youngster pretending to be up to the task of a uniform he carried with feigned confidence, the baby fat around his cheeks betraying him in an instant.

'You've got nothing to feel guilty about, pal,' the man with no uniform now tells Steve. 'You did good by the world.'

The world, however, is not Steve's immediate concern. Reminiscing has pulled him into a vortex of time where all he can do is fail Bucky, scene after excruciating scene. He wonders if he'd ever truly gotten over that day in Wakanda, seeing his friend turn to ash in front of his eyes, unable to get even a word out before it was over. The five years that followed, he'd spent in a haze. He never mentioned Bucky again, not before seeing his past self, when it seemed like the only recourse to get the mission back on track after Peggy's photo hadn't distracted the other Steve for long enough.

Seeing her in the 1970's had made him physically ache for a promise of a life – his life – that was simpler. He'd failed the world: he couldn't stop Thanos the first time around and then Thor had been to one to kill him, to make the decision. Steve had been completely useless after the Snap, a fact to which any of the people who'd attended his counselling group could attest to. Then Tony went and sacrificed himself, Steve again watching from the sidelines. A good man, perhaps, but not a very efficient one. Other good men – a lot better than him, certainly – had been killed in droves that day, and in the days preceding it: in Sokovia, in Washington, in New York; in '44, '43, '17, '16; in whirlwinds and storms that had left their mothers and sweethearts draped in gray clouds and black lace, their fathers and brothers mute by the bar. Steve had had his fill of surviving; staying seemed impossible after the loss had accumulated. He knew, rationally, it would always remain in _his_ past, but that past could be the world's future, and for a while at least – he could give himself the distance to pretend that he was living in a better, more innocent time than what lay ahead. If he couldn't make it up to Bucky – his mind short-circuited at the mere thought of what that would entail – perhaps he could at least do right by his best girl. Or so he'd thought.

In truth, he'd been running on mere fumes by the time he landed back in New York, back in the past. It took him years, and not a little help from Peggy, to forgive himself – for Thanos, for Tony, for a winter day on a train in the Swiss Alps; most of all, for opting out of a future he'd brought about. Years of reassurances first whispered in the dark, then yelled in exasperation over kitchen counters and across dusty hotel rooms.

'Yes, Steve, _of course_ I'm glad you came back to me.'

He's not sure if he ever truly believed it – he trusted Peggy and Peggy knew her mind better than anyone he'd ever met. But _his_ Peggy – the one doling out the reassurances – hadn't the memories of the other life, the one he'd taken away, to compare. The photographs he'd seen on her nightstand at the hospice haunted him mercilessly; each night h'd drop to his knees in the bathroom and pray – ' _Good Lord, please forgive me for what I've done_.' The show of contrition helped soothe his conscience, even if he'd lacked the conviction that anyone was listening. As time passed, so did the raw awareness of his trespass, buried deep into an unmarked grave. After the ground around it had settled, overgrown with episodes of uncomplicated day-to-day life, it seemed to Steve the wound was finally healed.

How naive old age is, he thinks to himself now, almost as much as youth – to make you believe that with its conclusion, the world falls into silence as well; that because _you_ are coming to a close, so must all things. Each time he looks at Bucky, a bit of that ground is overturned, the pain as fresh as if it had sprouted yesterday; like it had stayed in this reality, lying in wait to douse him at the end of the line like a bucket of ice cold water.

It's only when they turn left onto their street that Steve realizes he'd kept quiet throughout the rest of the walk. 

'I seem to have drifted off,' he states the obvious. He wishes he could tell Bucky everything, but words have never been his forte, regardless of what people have said about his speech-giving ability, and he hasn't found the right ones yet.

'Mhm,' Bucky replies, equally verbose. When he locks the door behind them, he lingers in the hallway and lifts his head to look at Steve, who is hopeful that this time, he'll see the blue of his eyes focus on his own. They dance around what Steve roughly guesses is his chin before Bucky turns away with a muttered 'Goodnight.'

Steve chooses to call the near-hit progress.

*

Sam comes over in the morning before his flight and Steve scrambles some eggs and fries two packets of bacon. They have what from the outside must look like a big family breakfast, and feels like one, too. Bucky teases Steve about his cooking with Sam's tacit encouragement, in stark contrast to the atmosphere of the previous day. Sam gives them updates on Bruce's progress with the museum, the working title of which remains ' _The Hall of Heroes_ '. Steve thinks it's a little pompous, a lot on the on the note, and judging by the way Bucky rolls his eyes, he agrees. Still, it's very Bruce – or at least, Professor Hulk, as he's taken to calling himself.

'How's Pepper doing,' Steve asks as Sam is tying his boots by the door.

'That woman is a dragon,' Cap replies with awe in his voice. 'At first we thought her position as the director would be more of an honorary title, you know – because.. But she's taken over operations as well as PR and budgeting, there's nothing gets past her. I don't know how she does it.'

Steve can guess how, having spent his life with a very similar woman.

'I'm glad to hear that. It's time you lot had a real leader.'

Sam frowns and looks like he's about to disagree when Bucky steps into the now-cramped space and nudges Sam with his shoulder.

'You take as long to leave as the folks around here,' he jokes. 'Two hours minimum at the door after announcing their departure, I swear.'

'It was good to see you too, _James_ ,' Sam says aiming for sarcasm, completely overshadowed by the fondness in his tone.

Steve feels warmth at the unlikely, cautious bond between his two best friends. At the same time, he recognizes the needle-sting of jealousy at the exchange: Bucky hasn't been as honestly fond with him since his return.

*

_Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America_

RESEARCH ARTICLE

Correlates of Post-Blip Psychogenic Capgras Syndrome Incidence: A First Look at Gender, Age, Snap-Survival, Family Structure and Socioeconomic Status

Nasrin Hussain, Leah Frederick

PNAS first published December 9th, 2024; https://doi.org/10.1105/pnas.3007831145

Abstract

The sudden widespread emergence of what presents as the Capgras delusion (characterized primarily by the misidentification of close loved ones as impostors) in Snap survivors has necessitated a closer look of this so-far understudied phenomenon. We conducted online surveys on a representative sample of the US adult population (N=15,780), with exhaustive lists of questions about the pre- and post-Snap status of participants and their families, their medical histories, past and current SES, as well as variables we hypothesized to be of particular interest (e.g. remarriage). Consistent with previous findings on Capgras, we observe a higher incidence in female and older populations, but no interaction between gender and age. Importantly, our analyses also point to a link between family structure and the gravity of the symptoms, with spouses of the Returned exhibiting a higher risk for developing the symptoms of what we termed psychogenic Capgras syndrome, to differentiate it from the previous delusion, which was caused predominantly by biological imbalances in the brain. This new syndrome, we hypothesize, has its basis in the psychological rather than the chemical, namely – the experience of guilt, despite the similarities in the expressions between the two. We conclude by outlining a comprehensive research program for further study of the syndrome, in hopes of encouraging researchers around the world to tackle this imminent threat to the mental health of the global population.

*

It takes Bucky a minute each morning to orient himself in time and space. My name is Bucky, he starts the litany-of-things-he-knows-beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt. I was born in 1917. I died in 1945, the first time. 2018, the second. It's 2023 now, and I'm in Budapest with Steve, who is older now. Being with Steve is a good thing.

Steve never needed introductions or qualifications in Bucky's mind before, but he found it wise to include them after the first couple of mornings, when the sight of New Steve rattling with plates and cutlery while making breakfast had put him in near-Winter Soldier mode. Part of the ritualistic repetition is an attempt to convince himself he feels happy about the emerging domesticity shared with a man he can barely recognize, because each time he looks at New Steve, he wants to shout at his ridiculously crinkled face, 'Bring me _my_ Steve back, you impostor.' It'd taken him years and not a little meddling with his brain he'd welcomed - invited, no less - to recover the memories of the other Steve, only to find them of no use. Bucky knows, feels, that they don't fit anymore, don't apply to the person living on the end of the hallway.

He doesn't say it, of course, because he is also aware that even the New Steve is Steve-enough to be hurt by his rejection. Bucky knows he's hurting Steve as is with his unwillingness to engage in anything longer than a five-minute conversation when they're alone, or by accepting every mission offered to him that takes him away from their shared apartment for days on end – the longer, the better. Being around his friend puts him on high alert, his conditioned instincts sparked by any indication of New Steve's reclining health, omens of impending death. Because Bucky knows, without a shadow of a doubt – though this fact is never included in the morning litany – that this Steve _is_ dying, and that in no time at all, he'll find himself alone. The absences are thus a necessity for his peace of mind as much as training for what's to come. He's testing the rubber band which has always bound them tightly to see how far it can stretch without rebounding, before they crash into each other and feel its sting, or before the old overused loop snaps throwing them in opposite directions.

There are many more things that probably hurt Steve worse than Bucky thinks he ever could, but he can't bear to broach those topics either. He is aware he should – both _know_ and _want_ _to know_ about them, if he's to be the friend Steve expects him to be, that Steve deserves. He tries to send himself on mini-missions each morning. Today: he will ask Steve about his wedding day. He doesn't make it out of the bedroom before his resolve evaporates. Besides, he hears Steve's recently discovered bestie rasp something about delusions from behind the closed door and sighs in justified relief. It isn't good form, after all, to be nosy in front of strangers.

Éva is not even close to being that, but will do as an excuse. If Bucky's honest, she probably knows New Steve better than him, which is perhaps the reason he regards her with cautious ambivalence. After all, they've had nothing but pleasant conversations which Bucky – to his chagrin – had found himself enjoying. The other option, of course, is that she reminds Bucky of what Steve probably had with his Agent Carter – but why this would irk him, he doesn't explore. When he sees them now, having coffee with the cold morning sun casting reflections on the smoke screen between them, it strikes him how _natural_ they look together, which in turn reminds him of how _un_ natural Steve and _him_ must appear to casual observers. To say he doesn't like this revelation is an understatement.

'How's the knitting association board meeting coming along,' he tries to joke as he pours himself a glass of orange juice from the fridge. He can't stand the heavy stuff Éva is partial to calling coffee, which Steve indulges her in.

'Today, we are more the American Psychological Association, I'm afraid.'

Bucky quirks his eyebrow instead of asking, bringing a chair up to the coffee table. Steve smiles at him, his open joy at Bucky's decision to join them equally endearing as it is annoying.

'I was reading an article on this new syndrome, about people who can't recognize their loved ones, who vanished during the Snap.'

'Died, you mean,' Bucky says to the orange liquid shimmering in his hand.

'Yes,' Éva interjects before Steve can start a fight on semantics. 'It is good for us to call things what they are.'

Steve groans in exasperation, but decides it's better not to argue with both of them at once. Bucky is pleased to find a confederate in the old lady, shifting her allegiance a tiny inch closer to himself, as if it were a game of espionage. Old habits, he smirks, before re-engaging.

'Anyway,' Steve continues, clearly irritated, 'it's like the woman we saw on our first night here, who was chasing her husband with the knife.'

'Ildikó,' Éva supplies.

'How could we forget Ildikó, with the knife, in the bedroom' Bucky deadpans.

'Right. Well, seems to be happening all over. It's got something to do with guilt, from what I gathered in-between the science-talk. I was just asking Éva to explain it.'

Before she can get a word in, Bucky is reminded of a mission connected to the Saved Souls group he'd tagged along on with Sam.

'I've heard about this. They have a cult now, these people, because why wouldn't they. Something about an alien race coming to conquer the Earth, pretending they're the people who got Snapped. To exterminate what's left of _real_ humans, of course. Everyone's always out to get us since we're so great.'

A shadow passes over Steve's face which tells Bucky this hypothesis probably isn't as bonkers as it had first sounded to him, but his friend doesn't mention whatever it is he'd thought of.

'They're not,' he says instead, redundantly, as if either Éva or Bucky need convincing of the fact. 'People.. good people died to bring them back home. The disrespect, the _lies_ Bellock and the leadership of the ECU are peddling, it's an insult to the memory of –' he stops himself before he can name names or betray the extent of his personal involvement to Éva, who – Bucky notices even if Steve doesn't – isn't surprised by his outburst in the least.

'It is a good paper,' she muses, ignoring Steve who is a second away from jumping out of his armchair and putting his fist through the wall. 'I myself, I am skeptical of their conclusions.'

'What do you mean,' Steve asks regaining some of his composure.

'We can track a lot of mental illness, of course, back to guilt. Something tells me we can the three of us agree with this, yes?'

Steve turns his head away to steal a glance at Bucky, who nods.

'Well. It is true, you can believe it or not,' she manages to _not_ sound condescending saying this. Bucky wonders how she does it, given that Steve often sounds infuriatingly righteous even while making innocuous suggestions, like 'Maybe you should close the door, Buck, we don't want the smell of Éva's smokes to carry into the bedrooms.' At first he'd attributed it to age, but given that he now has a control for that particular variable, he settles on the explanation in line with his own, earlier memories: that Steve had always been a stubborn, sanctimonious ass. Instead of being disheartened at the likely prospect of this being resistant to any influence he'd hoped to extend to make his daily life more bearable, Bucky is amused at this continuous thread between _his_ and New Steve.

'Be that as it may,' Éva continues, having seemingly waited for Bucky's focus to return, 'this _feels_ different. I have learned to trust my gut in my practice much more than I trust statistics. When one lies to oneself, it is easier to discover than when the same lie is disguised in numbers, I find.'

'So what you're saying is that someone's making this shit up,' Bucky attempts a blunt clarification, to Steve's obvious dismay, who'd probably had a carefully constructed, thoughtful monologue at the ready, stopped in its tracks now by Éva's delighted laughter.

' _James_. You should sit with us more often. Your friend could learn a thing or two from your – what do you say – straightforwardness?'

'Yeah, he's really as straightforward as they come,' Steve grumbles.

'You are an old fart, as the kids would say,' Éva chides him and lights another cigarette.

'The kids can fix their problems by themselves then, with no help from this old fart. Or you, seemingly, those things will be the end of you soon enough.'

Bucky can't help the surprised gasp at the first statement. He almost looks Steve straight in the eyes to confirm what he'd heard, but is afraid of what he'd find there. It hangs in the air until Éva is defiantly half-way through her cigarette. She then unexpectedly chuckles, shaking her head between her two American neighbors.

'Who caused their problems in the first place, I wonder,' she sighs. 'It cannot be old men like you, can it?'

He doesn't have to look at Steve to know the injury there, or at Éva to confirm she is perfectly aware of how well her jibe has landed. There's more to this woman than meets the eye, Bucky thinks for the second time this morning, but her knowingness doesn't strike him as sinister. He's learned to trust his gut about people too, and it has never failed him, except once perhaps – and that's still being decided.

'I don't know about you two, but I'm starving,' he decides to help Steve.

'Certainly, we have bored you horribly, I can imagine,' Éva says, detaching herself from Steve's armchair and extinguishing the cigarette on the small saucer. Bucky counts seven butts on it and silently agrees with Steve's verdict about her likelihood of surviving much longer. Before the outside door slams shut, she yells back – 'Same time tomorrow, István?'

'You bet,' Steve yells back, a fond smile settling on his face. Bucky can't begin to understand what either of them stands to gain from this friendship, but he also sure as Hell won't be the one to ask.

*

Steve has just finished doing the dishes leftover from breakfast when Bucky unexpectedly emerges from his hideout the second time this morning. Though their conversation with Éva had ended on a tense note, he was happy to see Bucky participate and not a little moved by his friend's show of protectiveness.

'What's up, Buck,' he asks while drying his hands with the nondescript hand towel. It's an off-white, dangerously approaching gray. 

Bucky is hovering in the middle of the living room, shifting his weight between his two feet as if uncertain if her should approach the sofa and sit down or flee the apartment. Steve can hear the quiet whir of the mechanics in his vibranium arm, a stream of nervous muscle impulses Bucky probably isn't aware of.

'I was thinking about what you and Éva were talking about, this paper about people who don't recognize their friends or whoever,' Bucky starts reluctantly.

'What about it,' Steve tries to sound encouraging, although he gets the impression he won't like what Bucky has to say.

'I just thought, I don't know, I might have that.'

Steve's body goes rigid, the hand towel disappearing in his fist.

'What do you mean, _you might have that_?'

Bucky's shoulders draw in around his body as if to deflect an imminent attack.

'Bucky,' Steve tries, more gently this time and not with a small amount of worry in his voice, 'tell me what's going on. Why do you think this is related to you?'

'I said I _thought_ I might have that, past tense. I probably don't. It was just funny, given the conversation. The coincidence.'

Steve can't find anything remotely funny in either their previous or current conversations, so he tries to ask again, third time hopefully bringing out the charm.

'Buck, you can tell me anything,' he starts clumsily. 'I just need some more intel to go on, that's all. _Talk to me_.'

'I'm not a mission you can strategize around and _solve_ , Steve,' Bucky bites back. 'The truth is, sometimes I have trouble recognizing you, too. There. And I thought – _hoped?_ – well, maybe what these folks have is the same thing I've got. Like, there might be a cure down the line or something.'

The horrifying realization of what Bucky is going to say - is saying - finally dawns on Steve. He knows he needs to stay put and bear it; hear the words come out of his friend's mouth and accept them for what they are, what he'd always feared they would be. It's the decent thing to do, after all, but it still takes every atom of peace and resolve he'd collected throughout his long life – the fuel of willpower saved during the good and perfect days for moments just like these – to resist the urge to run from the room and hide under mountains of pillows; get lost in landscapes both temporal and geographic, where even he couldn't locate himself; not to attempt to find a vacuum where the words Bucky is about to utter could never reach.

By the time the deed is done Steve feels utterly spent, as old as knows himself to be.

'But I don't think so. Because it's not the same. It ain't mental illness, is it? There won't be a cure. You're different. _I'm_ not crazy. _You're_ _different_.'

*

'Yes, Buck. I suppose I am.'

The peculiar glint in Steve's eyes, something smack in the middle of a continuum bracketed by pity and fortitude, presses deep into a bruise Bucky had barely been aware of until now. Its twinge is, however, instantly familiar.

Other notable appearances of it include: the first time Agent Carter walked into a pub and lodged herself in Steve's eyes, a finished, all-consuming picture of a life he'd always wanted in equal measure as dreaded for his friend. His subsequent happiness that Steve had finally found a worthy partner; the dull ache that followed the understanding that their days of sharing each other with each other exclusively had come to an end. The elation he'd felt every time he picked an enemy off Steve's path; the shameful afterthought it wouldn't mean crap for the future. Or else, it would, but it wouldn't be _his_ future. Steve would see his purpose fulfilled, Bucky should've guessed as much seeing all those rejection slips, then he'd move on to the next great chapter of his life, the next project in which Bucky could only hope for the recurring role of loyal sidekick; sharing a scene or two in a seedy watering hole every couple of years where they'd reminisce about their youths and pat each other on the backs before it was time to go. For Steve, never for Bucky – who'd stay until lights out, probably longer, pretending to make eyes at the pretty thing behind the bar. His heart wouldn't be in it, it never is-was-had been, but he'd still find a bizarre sense of fulfillment wash over him at the thought of Steve safely tucked into a warm bed where he can love and be loved without shame; accepted for who he is and was without contingencies.

Oh. _Oh_.

The errant strands of Bucky's misgivings about Steve's return extend beyond his volition and snake through his brain, weaving every cold declarative memory to its corresponding emotion, a history of longing and grudging acknowledgment of epic proportions unfolding as he tries to hold on to the ebbing uncertainty. At least give me a chance to deny it, he thinks, but it won't do. A neatly spread-out narrative of his life prevails, leaving nothing to guess about or rationalize. He can't tell whether he'd known – truly – he isn't sure he'd ever consciously entertained the thought outside of a whisky-infused joke or a panicked prayer on the battlefield ( _If you save him, Lord, I'll never again_...), but he damn well can't be ignorant now. Once you know certain truths, you can never un-know them, as much as you’d like to pretend otherwise. It’s over, the deed done, just in time for the bells to chime, eleven forty-five. a quarter of an hour left until noon or midnight, Bucky doesn't know, doesn't care.

He thanks his lucky stars God isn't real, because Steve would've died at least a hundred times given Bucky's failure to live up to his promises to the divine when he'd found himself too slow to prevent an enemy bullet firing in his general direction. Even dozens of feet off-target, they were always too close. But then, Bucky had also always thought that God – if they were as omniscient – would know to call him out on the bluff in the first place, to see the emptiness behind the vow; the desperate futility of self-coercion when love is involved.

_Love._

With this last of the curtains finally lifted, Bucky is at once more himself than he'd been since breaking Hydra's brainwashing; and least sure he's actually glad to have done so. 

*

It's already evening when Steve hears the lock click open. He doesn't resent Bucky for what can only be described as fleeing for his life after Steve's acknowledgment that yes, he was different now. Just how different, Steve can't gauge himself except for the obvious, but his hunch tells him his looks aren't what Bucky was referring to. The anxious steps in the hallway make him nervous, even though he's stayed up reading intentionally, fully aware his friend would need to pass by the living room – and him – on his return.

Bucky's face is drawn, his short hair a complete mess from what appears to be the consequence of running his hands through the pomade-perfected quiff for hours. He collapses on the sofa to Steve's amazement, opting against retreating to his room he'd spared a longing glance towards. As he'd not had a hope in Hell they'd actually talk again, much less immediately, Steve's at a loss for the right words. Bucky takes pity on his sudden bewildered shuffling.

'What're you reading,' he asks.

'Poetry, if you'll believe it.'

'I do,' Bucky groans. There's a pause in which Steve fails to find the right words to continue the to-and-fro, but Bucky spares him the indecency of a too long silence.

'Geezers go for that sentimental bullshit. Though you probably would've before too, you just never found the time.'

'You're not wrong,' Steve smiles, trying to imagine his younger self – the one Bucky knew best – reading anything of the sort. He can't. 'This was one of Peggy's favorites,' he takes a chance to say something about the-other-life-they-do-not-mention, Peggy's name getting stuck in his throat. Bucky doesn't acknowledge the admission, by either taking the flesh hand covering his eyes away to look at Steve or leaving the room. Taking it as close to encouragement as Bucky will show, Steve continues. 'You know, I never thought I'd have a taste for it, until Pegs explained it to me. Then I began to see the appeal.'

'What's it about,' Bucky whispers, apparently shy for asking.

'Time, I suppose.'

'I thought Agent Carter explained it to you?'

'She did,' Steve chuckles, 'but I've always been a hopeless student. I remember _you_ trying to do the same, you know, when we were at school. Explain English literature to me.'

Bucky frowns, a slight crunch of his nose betrays it with most of the expression hidden beneath his hand.

'I guess. Sure wasn't as good as Agent Carter at it.'

'You were alright.'

Steve wishes Bucky would stop referring to Peggy as 'Agent Carter', but given the small yet painful steps they've managed in the span of a day, it seems selfish to even ask. Instead, another thought occurrs to him.

'Would you like me to read some, to you?'

'You wanna recite poetry to me, Stevie?' Bucky finally takes his hand from off his face, only to make sure Steve can see him rolling his eyes. Just as Steve's about to revoke the offer in embarrassment, Bucky sits up on the sofa, crossing his legs, and shrugs.

'Let's hear it.'

'From the top?' Steve stupidly inquires.

' _If you don't mind._ '

'Okay. Here goes. Oh, by the way - it's by T.S. Eliot. He's the writer. Poet. Four Quartets. That's the name of the book. Collection, I mean. Well, four collected poems, like the title.'

' _Jesus H. Christ,_ will you get on with it before the clock strikes midnight?'

In a definition of perfect timing, they hear the first toll of the nearby church bells as soon as Bucky ends his complaint. It takes them both a second to stop sniggering like schoolboys at the coincidence. Steve turns back to the front page of the thin paperback and coughs to signal his intention to begin.

_‘Time present and time past  
Are both perhaps present in time future,  
And time future contained in time past.  
If all time is eternally present  
All time is unredeemable.  
What might have been is an abstraction  
Remaining a perpetual possibility  
Only in a world of speculation.  
What might have been and what has been  
Point to one end, which is always present.  
Footfalls echo in the memory  
Down the passage which we did not take  
Towards the door we never opened  
Into the rose-garden. My words echo  
Thus, in your mind.’_

As he recites, Steve does his best not to steal glances of Bucky, who is staring straight ahead from his position on the sofa; unblinking, apparently ossified. There is no background noise of the Vibranium apparatus to betray his thoughts. When he finishes Burnt Norton, its last two lines piercing the solemn atmosphere of the colorless room, Bucky stands up and crosses his arms around his body.

'I don't think I can help you with this one, buddy,' he says. 'I sure as Hell wish I could.'

Steve is aware of something other than an inadequacy in literary analysis weighing on Bucky's mind, but he doesn't know what to focus his queries on: where a good place to begin would be, what a definitive moment to stop would look like. He chooses not to push his luck.

'We can talk about it tomorrow,' he decides to be hopeful.

'Yeah,' Bucky sounds less convinced, but agrees. 'Tomorrow. Goodnight, Steve.'

'Goodnight, Buck.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I made a promise to be more succinct at the end of my prologue: it is a promise I now realize I will be unable to fulfill. I’m sorry if I deceived any of you and roped you into reading another 8k+ pining extravaganza. I really am! At the same time, I want to be true to the story I started, that’s growing of its own volition despite what I thought was my very-tight outline. So this is a disclaimer, I suppose, for subsequent chapters which will seemingly be just as hectic and elaborate as what I’ve posted so far.
> 
> Please also forgive any grammar and other inconsistencies, I *did* try to do away with these before posting, but the curse of knowledge is strong with this one and the errant commas as well as incorrect tenses get automatically translated into their ought-to-be forms in my brain.
> 
> That said, I’d love to hear your thoughts on New (Old) Steve, Bucky, Éva, the state of world politics and mental health, as well as your predictions or hopes for their futures. Though I can’t say I’ll be able to incorporate them into this already busting-at-the-seams story, who can say what’s to come (if I can’t).


	3. Ten Cents A Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pepper and Bruce are preparing a grand opening of the Hall of Heroes for New Year's eve. Steve bickers with just about everyone because he's a curmudgeon. Bucky is visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past. The boys still manage to find the cheer to celebrate the season with an (un)likely guest. Everyone dances!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a 'calm before the storm' kind of chapter, because I wanted to give everyone some time to breathe before the inevitable downward spiral and angst to follow. The chapter title was inspired by [Ten Cents A Dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6k4E9bPpMXE) because I am anything but subtle with my subtext. 
> 
> There aren't any straightforward content warnings for this chapter, unless you count schmaltz as something that could make you cringe uncomfortably (which is understandable), and some oblique references to war. 
> 
> Also, big hugs to everyone who's keeping up with this as I post – I know it's a bit tough what with the chapters being super long and coming in weekly. If anything crosses your mind while reading – do share with me in the comments, even if it's just to say 'Steve is the worst' or 'who eats stew on Christmas eve' (apparently, Bucky).

'All I'm saying is, this would be a great opportunity for you to come out, Steve,' Pepper says in a conversational tone that's anything but. She keeps clicking her pen in what Steve can only guess is extreme annoyance with his reluctance to fall in line and take part in the opening. 'The public wants to know what happened to you, there's only so much no-commenting I can do before they start believing the conspiracy theorists.'

'You think telling the truth would be better?'

' _Some_ of it, yes.'

'I don't know, Pepper. I really am sorry to cause you headaches on this account, but I've said my goodbyes to all that long ago. I wouldn't know where to start.'

Pepper sighs.

'I'm not asking you to do any of this on your own, Steven. Just tell me you'll think about it, okay?'

Steve is sure he's read something about 'foot-in-the-door' strategies of influence in one of Peggy's psychology books. She'd always tried to stay on top of the research that could help SHIELD stay on top of the espionage and diplomacy game. Given what he'd told her about the future, he wasn't surprised – even if the majority of his predictions and intel never amounted to much after the first couple of years. Certainly not the one prediction that had been the most important to him personally.

'I'll think about it,' he promises, having already checked out of the conversation. He manages to squeeze in a quick 'take care' before signing off and turning to Bucky, who has been observing him from the sofa for the last five minutes.

'You got something to add?' he asks, hoping against the obvious tell-tale signs this isn't the case.

*

'I don't see the big issue,' Bucky starts. While he's no big fan of Pepper's plan for Steve's reintroduction to society, he can't help thinking that his friend's aversion to visiting the opening and 'coming out' as the director put it ( _ironic choice of words_ , Bucky thinks) is less to do with wanting to live his remaining years in peace, and more with refusing to live at all. 'Kiss some hands, shake some babies. Wouldn't be your first rodeo.' _It would probably be the last_.

'No, it wouldn't. That's exactly why I'm not doing it. What's the point?'

'Helping Pepper? And Sam, for that matter, since half the population thinks he stole your spot on the team or something.'

'They'll come 'round in time,' Steve sounds unsure. 'Me stepping out... it would make it worse.'

'Who for? Yourself?'

'We're really having this argument now,' Steve sounds tired, and Bucky almost takes pity on him, that is, until he adds, 'I don't know how many times I need to repeat myself before everyone understands that _I'm done_. _Over and out_.'

'You're still _alive_ , Steve,' Bucky points out, though Steve hasn't seemed truly alive once since returning. What's worse, he also hasn't seemed too eager to change that.

'The fact I haven't stopped breathing because of some super-soldier serum I got a century ago doesn't mean my life isn't over, Bucky. I've done all that I possibly can, I'm happy to leave it at that.'

At least he sounds apologetic, Bucky reasons, even if the content of what Steve is saying is the stuff of his recent nightmares. _You can't be done_ , he pleads while the sounds of children playing outside trickle in-between the cracks in the window frames. _You can't be done until I'm done with you, not this time_.

'You're happy. Congrats. So what now? I'm supposed to be happy too, standing in the wings 'till you die? That what you came back for, a hand on the deathbed? A witness?'

Steve flinches at the accusation, delivered at a much higher volume than Bucky had intended. But whatever he packed the words in – nice shiny paper and a ribbon of gold – wouldn't change the desperate prayer underneath. _Don't leave_. Only, Bucky knows this isn't a vow Steve is able or even willing to make. Not to him, not now, perhaps not ever.

'I can't do this,' Bucky shakes his head and quickly collects his phone off the table, pushing it into the pocket of his black sweatpants and darting to the bedroom, a stark shadow against the perpetual pale twilight of the surroundings.

*

Steve is flipping through the pages of an art history textbook while he waits for Éva. He's preferred to observe their morning ritual in her apartment for the last couple of days, an attempt to gain some respite from Bucky's ghost-like presence. He hasn't seen him since their conversation, which would worry Steve were it not for the little cues that Bucky hasn't actually left - the sound of a shower early in the morning, a cup left in the wrong place in the kitchen cupboard, their dwindling supply of breakfast cereal. Steve doesn't know how much longer he can take living with a ghost, but he thinks he's being charitable, allowing Bucky some space to cool off. What from, he doesn't know. Bucky had seemed on edge even before their argument about Pepper's plan for Steve's New Year's eve debut, but Steve couldn't for the life of him guess what he'd done to deserve the communication vacuum he's found himself in.

Part of it is surely his foolishness in believing they could pick up where they'd left off (left off _when_ , Steve wonders – before The Fall? Before The Fist Fight? Before The Snap? Before the Reverse Time Heist? – and God, but why have all their goodbyes been bracketed by events on a global scale, requiring capitalization?). Steve had known nothing would be _the same,_ standing on the platform and looking into Bucky's eyes, his resignation and tepid approval, but also – the hint of a smile, a happiness that was all for Steve's sake. ' _I wish you wouldn't_...' Steve had begun to form a thought before being sucked into the vortex and back in time. And that was their other issue, wasn't it – the small issue of _time_ – decades in his case – that have allowed the fresh wound of missing Bucky to scab over and peel itself off. Steve had had time to come to grips with the consequences of his actions and make believe Bucky would do the same. But of course, that was impossible – Bucky had been trapped in amber of that last goodbye until now, wound encapsulated in the golden resin, not even permitted to bleed.

A photo of a statue catches his eye just as he smells the unmistakable whiff of coffee announcing his host's return. He takes the book and sits down, hoping to distract Éva into another lesson on culture and art; anything not to talk about why he's here, alone, the fifth day in a row.

'She's beautiful,' he says as Éva walks back into the room, teacups and a small bowl of sugar cubes clattering on the metal tray in her old hands. _Steve looks down at his own hands, so similar to hers yet still supernaturally stronger, for this one hundred plus years._ She deposits the tray on the small table and looks over his shoulder to the book, scoffing.

'The world can only worship us when we are faceless, sculpted archetypes. The mother, the saint, the _whore_.' Éva wiggles her eyebrows. 'Nike does not have a head, only her body is preserved in intricate detail to admire. The frothy seafoam of her dress as it – what is the word – crinkles? - against her _firm_ stomach and breasts. Ah. What marvelous execution! And underneath this beauty, this magnificent achievement? An ugly truth. This is what happens to women in wars. We lose our heads, our faces, our _personhood_. Our bodies are left to be conquered, to reflect the fleeting victories of big men.'

It sounds like something Peggy would say. Even Éva's thick accent inexplicably reminds him of Peggy's. For a moment, he's not sure whether he'd in fact _heard_ Peggy say the exact same sentences.

'This is amusing to you,' she feigns indignation as she drops a sugar cube in the small coffee cup in front of him, then repeats the gesture with her own.

'No, not at all,' he shakes his head with a warm smile. 'You're probably right. I used to know someone who would very much appreciate that analysis.'

'Hmm,' Éva shrugs her shoulders, knowingly. 'Your wife, yes?'

While it's a true statement, it seems much too reductive a description.

'It would be more accurate to say _I_ was her husband. She was.. much more. Than me, than us.'

'And you are not?'

Steve sighs, regretting the elaboration as he almost tangibly feels the coils of Éva's psychoanalyst mind latch onto it and knows she won't easily let it go. But then, the question is a valid one – that he doesn't have an answer isn't her fault.

'I don't know. She was a towering presence, Pegs. You couldn't stand near her and not be consumed by her shadow.'

'Her shadow? Interesting choice of words.'

'Oh, Éva, really now. I'm here for coffee, not a therapy session.'

She chuckles self-consciously, brushes his fingers on the armchair hand-rest with her own.

'I apologize. After one life dedicated to the intricacies of the mind, it becomes second nature. Professional deformation, that is the name?'

'Among others,' Steve huffs, but squeezes her hand with the tips of his fingers. He almost expects to hear a rustling; the kind dry, brown leaves make under one's boots in autumn.

'Now, perhaps you understand why I do not have many friends?'

'I'm starting to get the picture.'

Steve takes a sip of his coffee. The strong, rich liquid passes through his throat to settle in his belly, igniting nerve endings on its way. She'd tried to teach him how to make it several times, but his attempts pale in comparison.

'This is great,' he notes. 'Strong.'

 _'Turkish_ ,' Éva nods appreciatively. 'The real _stuff_.' Hearing her use informal words with such gusto is endearing. 

'You're..' Steve begins, but realizes he does not know quite how to phrase what he'd meant to say as a compliment.

'Different?' she supplies with a cheeky grin.

 _'A lot_ would've been my choice word.'

'Ha!' she exclaims cheerfully. 'I suppose this is true. Like this country is, or used to be. Like my family, our history. The _lives_ I've lived.'

'More than one?' Steve asks, curious.

'Every new day, almost.'

'Would you like to tell me about them?'

'No, I don't think so.'

Steve is amused by how closely their exchange mirrors his conversation with Sam by the lake. He understands the desire to keep certain things to oneself, away from others' eyes. He says as much, when Éva frowns and shakes her head in a resolute no.

'That is not the case at all, my dear István. I have lived _all_ my lives very publicly. But there are so many, you see, an old lady does not know where to begin. And after all, she is still only concerned with this one. Today. _Tomorrow_. You are beginning to laugh, why?'

Steve realizes he has, in fact, started sniggering. The idea of a 98-year old woman telling him she has no use of the past and is only looking forward to the future is so singular; so far removed from his own outlook when, in reality, he likely has much more time left.

'Your hunger for the future amuses me. Most of my old friends, well, let's just say they wouldn't be as hopeful.'

'Most of your old friends are idiots then,' she quips. As a casual afterthought Steve can tell is anything but, given the calculatedness he's come to expect from her, she adds, 'Not the young one, James. Though it is not the name he feels as his own, somehow... I call to him, and he does not respond quickly.'

Éva gets lost in thought, errantly dunking another sugar cube in her coffee and bringing it up to her coral-painted lips, then sucking.

'You know, that really isn't healthy for people our age,' Steve chastises.

She doesn't respond apart from raising her eyebrows, probably aware of it being a weak attempt at deflecting the conversation from the issue of _James_. _Of course he doesn't answer to the name_ , Steve thinks. He hasn't been James in decades, not since Steve had decided on calling him Bucky when they were ten years old.

'Maybe that is enough talk of history, for now,' she shrugs.

'I thought there was never enough talk about history? Mother of learning, all that jazz?'

'Hmph, too much learning is also not something to aspire to, if you ask me. Too much potential for rationalization, less so for _imagination_.'

'Well, my imagination is just fine, only it takes me to very dark places now. I'd rather the future not reflect my imagination.'

Éva nodds pensively.

'I am afraid, on that we can agree, my American friend. Imagination can be a wonderful tool for the good, but men appear to always use it to that other end. You and me both, I think we know it well.'

'A friend.. I think I can call him a friend, he once told me we need to look at the world as it is, not how we'd like it to be. I guess he was right, only it goes both ways. I used to see the world as being better, now I can't help seeing the worst of it.'

Éva doesn't fully agree.

'It is good to know where your feet are. But that does not mean you should keep standing in the same spot, István. We must not lose sight of where we are, but also where we want to go.'

'What if you don't want to go anywhere,' Steve asks. 'If you're content with where your feet are?'

'That is a humanly impossible counterfactual, my friend. There is always somewhere you will want to go.'

'Maybe that's true for you.' He doesn't have to add the other part of that sentence for Éva to read it from in-between the lines.

'Perhaps, what you need is for somebody to imagine a better future for you. Or with you?'

Steve thinks of Peggy again – of the better future she'd created in that other world, for almost everyone. The _almost_ haunts him to this day. He'd had one job and failed even at what was supposed to be the simplest of missions.

'You should talk to young James,' Éva says, and Steve isn't sure whether the statement refers to the conversation they were just having, or the one he'd been trying to avoid.

'I should,' he replies, the intention ringing as hollow as he knows it to be.

*

It’s coming on Christmas, but the weather’s different here. There’s no white. The strong _Košava_ blows the scent of winter away. It is worst by the river: Bucky can sometimes feel minuscule atoms of the Danube hit his face full-force; clink against the metal of his arm performing a clumsy carol, as if his whole body were a xylophone. An instrument of music instead of murder. He decides he likes it better that way.

Bucky's gut tells him he used to love Christmas, which is confirmed by the warm flutter of expectation as he breathes in the cold air mixed with scents from nearby vendors of cinnamon-dusted chimney cakes and intricately decorated gingerbread cookies. Smells were what had helped ground himself most in the months after he'd first broken the Winter Soldier programming – the quality of his real memories always smelled like something – dust, moisture, the sickly sweet riverside air. The implanted memories were void of an olfactory dimension: faded silver-screen reels, radio transmissions recited in a monotone, mechanical voice. He has vague memories of Steve in wintertime – real ones, he knows, because of the distinct scent combination of wet brick, rotting garbage and distant bubbling stew. In most of the episodes he can retrieve, Steve is trying to convince him to throw themselves into the icy blanket of snow as they pass an empty lot, where a layer thick enough had accumulated. Bucky is always pretending it's a good idea; that he's not utterly terrified the game will prove lethal for Steve in a week's time. In later ones – Bucky can place them somewhat chronologically by looking down at the state of the callouses on his hands - Steve doesn't wait for Bucky to join or ask for permission. He simply disappears in the white. Bucky promptly follows and they flail their arms about like maniacs, happier still than all the children. If he remarked on the fact they were in their twenties and more childish even than Mr. Ortiz's offspring, Steve would pout.

'They're not mature enough to know what they're missing.'

Bucky often felt equally immature in those days, drowning under the cold as it soaked into his clothes, sank under his skin; until it coiled around his bones and there wasn’t an inch of him a person could touch without getting their fingers glued to him. He'd always hoped that person would be Steve: he can find the undercurrent of longing now that he knows to look for it. When they made it home, they'd sit guilt-ridden on the sofa which – they both knew – would soon enough be cluttered with medicine, gauze and bowls of warm water, too sterile for even the smell of Christmas to prevail.

'You should write about today, Buck' Steve often said, even if Bucky hadn't written in years, not since he'd left school. 'I love your stories, they make me feel like we're somewhere else.'

'Where else do you wanna be, pal,' Bucky would ask, and Steve would draw him a picture – quick and dirty, barely more than an outline. Instead of writing – always mindful of saving paper and lead for Steve's art – Bucky would take the crumpled paper on offer and straighten it out in his hands while spinning a good ending to the year. Even if, most times, there wasn’t much good to say at all. Even if the year had been shitty and they both knew it: Bucky would close his eyes with Steve leaning gently on his shoulder and weave them a good memory. The make-believe became an indispensable part of their holiday tradition, something to joke about down the line, as much as something to do in those moments.

'Remember '35.,' Steve had asked him in '44., leaning against a balcony railing in a Paris suburb after a successful mission. Neither had realized it was Christmas day until Dugan had knocked on the door of their shared room with two packets smokes.

'Gauloises,' he'd tried to echo Dernier's accent. 'Not bad for a French product, I must say.'

Steve had naturally been mortified at the realization he'd forgotten about the holiday – not out of any particular piety, but mostly for the missed opportunity to treat his men. 'We got the best present you could get us right here, Captain,' Dugan had motioned down the hallway to the faraway cacophony or music and laughter. 'You and the Sarge care to join?'

They'd followed him to the men's quarters and spent half an hour exchanging holiday greetings in at least four languages, shaking hands and patting backs and shoulders. When the music had picked up in volume again, Bucky had ushered Steve out to the balcony. That was when Steve had hearkened back to their holiday custom, a fond smile across his face.

'I believe we also spent our holiday in Paris that year.' Bucky had replied, pensive. 'Knowing what I know now, I'd have focused a lot more on describing the sorry sewer smell so you lucked out there, pal.'

'Yeah, funny how it works out. Nothing's ever like you'd expect. Tell me another one?' Steve hadn't had to clarify what the 'one' was referring to.

'Where else do you wanna be, pal,' Bucky had cheekily echoed his usual response.

'Home,' Steve had simply said.

Bucky had wanted to ask him what he meant by that – what home even was for Steve anymore, given Agent Carter's appearance as well as his newly acquired status of supersoldier and America's sweetheart, but Jones had come bustling out on the balcony to be sick, then promptly pushed the both of them back into the fray of swinging, singing bodies in the room. By the time they'd returned to their room, Bucky was a bit tipsy – a certain giveaway of the serum working on his metabolism, considering how much he'd had to drink – and too invigorated by the atmosphere to start a serious conversation. Stupidly, he remembers, he'd thought there would be time to bring it up in the future.

That's the last Christmas Bucky remembers, and like most others, it's marked exclusively by Steve. He doesn't recall the view from the balcony or the fierce freedom fighter he'd danced the night away with. The faces of their comrades blur together, as do the songs. Only Steve's face – his old new one – and the sound of his voice as he shyly asks Bucky to narrate a story of home remain intact. So does the smell of the French cigarette between his fingers, blending with the grime on their shirts and a more subtle scent of what he can only think to describe as clean sweat, radiating off Steve. After all these years, he thinks he finally understands the reasons behind Steve's requests. They were beautifully naive and, sometimes, they were also the right ones. His friend's defiance toward reality and his insatiable hunger for _better_ were frequently the only things that saved them, at first from the bog of ordinariness, then the horrors of war. The stories Bucky made up became their reality and gave them the courage to hope; security in the knowledge that if all else turned sour, something soft could always be imagined to cushion their fall. That the last memory of Christmas wouldn't have to be heavy breathing on a silent night, or shelling in the dark.

This is what hurts Bucky the most about New Steve's indifference towards the world. Without him as a guide, Bucky isn't sure he knows how to imagine good things anymore, let alone live in this world that has changed in the span of what felt like an afternoon nap: only, this was one of those which left you disoriented and confused, wondering what day – year – decade it was, calling out to a mother or a friend you'd forgotten were both long gone. These are the thoughts that consume Bucky as he opens the door to the apartment, a memory of smoke tangible in the hallway. Steve, for once, isn't in his room like he'd been the last couple of days since their fight each time Bucky returned home. He looks up expectantly and what with the lack of any human contact and his trip down memory lane with the Ghost of Christmas Past, Bucky decides to break the ice.

'Your ladyfriend drop by?'

'My friend, who's a lady, came over, yes.'

The snarky reply almost does away with Bucky's resolve to be civil, but his stubborn resolution to prove he's the better man wins.

'She smokes those Gauloises?'

'That she does,' Steve laughs. 'How'd you know? She keeps them in that fancy silver cigarette case, I only noticed when she refilled it in front of me.'

'The smell. I remember it from Paris.'

It seemingly takes Steve a while to catch on the 'when' of what Bucky is referring to. He tries not to look wounded.

'We should invite her for Christmas Eve. Dinner and a party, or something.'

Bucky is trying not to stare at Steve as he dangles the idea, but unable to look away from his friend's general direction. Steve's face betrays hopeful elation at Bucky's words, which he immediately tries to school into an expression of a more tempered thoughtful agreement. Both are instantly recognizable as _Steve_. Finally, something else seems to occur to him and he scrunches his nose.

'You realize Éva is Jewish, right?'

'So was Mister Zimmerman,' Bucky shrugs. 'Never stopped _him_ helping himself to a cookie... or ten.'

Steve doesn't seem very convinced, but says he'll ask. 

*

'You realize I am Jewish, István?' Éva's face is as serious as Steve's ever seen it. He curses Bucky for putting him up to this under his breath, only if he's being fair – there was not much convincing necessary. The thought of his friend actually wanting to do something together – as a family – had put Steve in such a good mood that he would've been willing to invite the whole ECU leadership to their party, if that had been Bucky's condition. Thankfully, it wasn't – though whether he would've preferred that to the incredulous look Éva is now shooting him with is anyone's guess. Before she bursts out laughing, that is.

'Oh, sweet man. To think I would ever say no to a celebration where food and spirits are offered. You _are_ offering these, yes?'

Steve rolls his eyes.

'Yes, you fiend.'

'And you are not cooking, I hope?'

' _No_. Bucky has arranged catering, if you must know.'

'Very good, _very good_. I will be there if this is so.'

'Ye of little faith,' Steve mumbles before he shuts the green door behind himself.

Walking back across the courtyard, he takes note of the wreaths of the doors – smaller and more plain than what he'd grown accustomed to in the US, but charming nonetheless. He's considering whether Bucky and him should also get something similar to hang on the outer bars of their entrance, when he notices something in their mailbox. It strikes him as strange – they've never gotten post here, no doubt owing to the fact the only people who knew their address could be counted on the fingers of his one hand. He shimmies his hand into the small opening, which – to both his surprise and utter dismay – works to retrieve the envelope. He makes quick work of tearing along the glued edge to get to the card inside.

It's as kitsch as Steve can believe they make them – a Bob Ross-like scene with an added sleigh in the sky above a vaguely Bavarian-looking cottage, and not a small amount of glitter on the stars which is at once transferred to his whole person.

'So, Clint sent us a hideous Christmas card,' he informs Bucky as he enters the living room, trying to brush golden glitter off his sweater and making the situation much worse in the process. 'Also, Éva has agreed to come over, but I had to promise you'll order catering. She seemed wary of the thought of me cooking.'

Bucky stands up and takes the card from Steve's hand. He looks at the back, where a seasonal greeting that is singularly Clint is scrawled in inconceivably bad handwriting: ' _Thought you'd prefer this mode of communication, fossils. Ho-ho-ho, The Bartons_.'

'You think I haven't already ordered the food, Steve?'

Steve tries not to feel insulted for the second time in five minutes.

'We should send him a card back,' Bucky continues. 'Budapest in winter. Do you think he'd like that?'

Steve understands what Bucky's thought process with the card is at once. He remembers the postcards Clint had put in the chest the night they said goodbye to Nat, and is moved by the fact Bucky remembers them too, even if he'd only been there as Steve's friend. After all, Bucky had had very little to do with Nat, if you don't count the few times they'd tried to kill one another.

'I think that's a great idea,' he managed to squeeze out against the lump in his throat.

*

A particularly sacrilegious remix of Last Christmas plays for what Steve can only guess is the hundredth time that hour, defying even his advanced knowledge of the flexibility of time. He squeezes in-between the crowd and vendors on Vörösmarty tér, unwillingly echoing the words of the song in his mind. _Perhaps Bucky won't mind not getting a gift_ , he thinks desperately, _if I explain the torture I am being subjected to here_. Just as he's about to give up, he catches a glimpse of a small stand with what look like antique knick-knacks from the corner of his eye. One thing in particular grabs his attention, and he approaches the old bearded man standing at attention behind a small heater, praying the object in question is also on sale and not mere decoration. After a couple of misunderstandings and incorrectly used tenses (Steve can surmise the latter from the amused quirk of the man's mouth), he has the gift in a large plastic bag he decides he'll leave with Éva until it is needed.

Satisfied with his purchase, the beginning of the hundred-and-first repetition of Last Christmas doesn't grate on his nerves. Instead, he thinks about the words in the title for what is probably the first time ever. They seem oddly fitting now, but then they would've seemed so during almost every Christmastime Steve can remember spending with Bucky. Entire decades of their friendship had amounted to living under a looming shadow of premature goodbyes. This had never made itself quite as apparent to Steve as it would during long New York winters, when the guilt because of his illnesses – and what those had required of Bucky – would paradoxically make him _more_ reckless instead of thankfully prudent.

Perhaps it had been the acknowledgment that each of those days could be his last that had egged him on to act rashly and without thought of consequences: his life had been one long sequence of predicted 'lasts', and it was squarely outside of the Steve Rogers of old to accept anything lying down. That wasn't the whole story, though, because Steve's concern for himself had almost always been eclipsed by his concern for Bucky. The mere thought of his friend, alone and without him, constricted Steve's chest each time he coughed or felt a light-headedness in those pre-serum years – making matters all the worse. He'd been terrified of leaving a mess behind that Bucky would have to clean; a depressing last hurrah that would haunt him for years to come. So Steve pushed himself beyond the limits on the good or the good-enough days, just to see that fuck-it smile on Bucky's face, or his own face reflected in Bucky's eyes – as invincible as he ever was; his apparent strength unchanged between the worst to the best days, no trace of the pity he received in tonnes from everyone else.

It suddenly strikes Steve how unfair the whole thing really was, that he'd been saved by Bucky so many times only to fail him twice as many more. How Bucky had always gotten the short end of the stick with Steve: Steve who was sick, or in constant danger, or too busy saving the world to save Bucky in return. Steve who was now old and dying. They'd never gotten the chance to do more, to be on an equal footing with one another, except, that is, in the crazy adventures Bucky would recite off the top of his head to soothe Steve. For what is maybe the first time since returning to the timeline he'd left behind, Steve feels guilty not for any old wrongdoing, but this new one: that he had let his friend down, only to come back with no time at all to give Bucky what he deserves from Steve. What exactly that is, he can't begin to grasp even in the privacy of his thoughts – but he's certain it's more. More than this, more than Steve can give him anymore.

There might've been a possibility for that – he thinks unbidden, even without the presence of mind to pinpoint what _that_ is even referring to – a late evening moment, on Christmas, too, of all days – a barely perceptible, fleeting second in-between battles when Steve had gathered his courage and asked Bucky to imagine a different kind of ending than the one they'd both seen coming from miles away. Perched on an iron balustrade the pattern of which he can't recall, in Paris he can scarce remember apart from the way it provided a dramatic backdrop for his last memories of Bucky-as-he-used-to-be, Steve had looked Bucky in the eyes and pleaded, silently, for Bucky to take him home. Only the home he'd barely managed to outline himself hadn't looked like America, or New York, or Brooklyn; not Peggy he had certainly already fallen in love with either; not even the body he'd used to call his own and now incredibly _missed_. No.

Despite not wanting to remember, though it would've made life simpler to forget – Steve hasn't. He can see the picture he'd painted in his mind as clearly as if he'd done it on paper like they used to, the one he'd wanted to show Bucky that day in Paris and have it reflected in the story Bucky told him in return. He'd only seen it play out a single time more, a couple of months after the Christmas party in Paris, when it flashed before his eyes while he plunged the Valkyrie into the Arctic sea. It was a harmless enough image; a portrait completely devoid of setting or detail, two men laughing at an inside joke, hands grasping each other's arms in an uninterrupted circle. Tell me a story about us, Steve had asked Bucky when he'd asked him to cast his mind into the future and tell him a story about home.

*

Steve isn't surprised to find that Bucky has indeed organized catering for their Christmas Eve dinner, even before being informed of Éva's skepticism. He _is_ surprised, however, to see the two young men wheel what appears to be a feast for ten on the backs of their motorcycles and carry the boxes into the apartment in three goes, completely covering the round table and nearly stacking the assorted foods up to the ceiling.

'Pepper sends her regards,' Bucky says innocently.

'Aham,' Steve can't even begin to find words for the monstrosity that is their mountain of food for three. He makes a mental note to google homeless shelters in the morning and figure out how to arrange a drop-off for the leftovers – if that's the correct word for kilograms of various food never opened or tasted – as soon as possible.

'We'll need something for lunch tomorrow.'

'Yes, I don't think we would've survived if you'd only ordered _half_ of this. Or a _third_. Actually, a _fourth._ '

'Hey! Some of us still have an appetite equivalent to a large bear, Goldie.'

They have a short call with Sam in the afternoon, who looks even more devastated that he wasn't able to join them when he sees the abundance waiting for dinner.

'My old lady would've murdered me if I hadn't come to hers for the holidays, but looking at all that food, damn – it might've been worth it to die _happy_.'

Bucky rambles about the different meats: smoked, grilled, stewed – Steve knows he's probably missing a couple of preparation styles, though he's sure to find out by the end of the night. Sam is eagerly supplying comments which mostly translate to variations on 'yeah' and ' _why_ are you doing this to me'. Before they hang up, Steve asks if anyone has gotten news about Wanda. Sam averts his gaze, which is all the answer he needs.

'Nat taught her well,' Sam concludes. 'She'll come back when she's ready.'

'I hope so. Have a good time back home, Sam,' Steve smiles.

'I will. And you two – don't kill your nice neighbor lady with all the artery-clogging stuff you've got there. She's grown on me.'

'Don't worry, Sam. It'd more likely kill Steve, that woman is _immortal_.'

Steve is relieved to find Bucky in what genuinely appears to be a good mood, the possible double entendre behind his words non-existent. They haven't talked much since ending their cold war from days ago, but little things like Bucky boiling extra water in the morning for Steve's tea or Steve offering to get still-missing supplies from the nearby store had definitely thawed the ice somewhat. On his way back from the Christmas market, Steve had purchased a small wicker wreath with a couple of pine cones glued at the bottom; dried orange slices, cinnamon sticks and assorted pieces he's never seen before or else doesn't know the names of, all dangling on red threads: a scented wind-chime. Bucky had promptly busied himself with finding the 'correct' spot for it on their door, with no lack of suggestive criticism from Steve's part. They'd managed not to kill each other in the process, which Steve had taken excessive pride in later in the evening as he lay in bed and dared to hope that the holidays might actually be a pleasant affair, not merely one in which their fighting is suspended.

His hopes are goaded on by Éva's arrival, who seems willing to out-chat them both, combined.

'This can only be James' doing,' she chirps contentedly at the sight of what Steve has by then started referring to as _Bucky's Christmas horn of plenty_. He has a distinct sense of _déjà-vu_ for the whole scene, but their guest's admiration and rummaging through the boxes prevent any closer inspection of its origin. Bucky is delighted with Éva's delight, though Steve can tell he's positioned himself closer to the table than he usually would, in clear anticipation that her tinkering with the leaning tower of delicacies will send them toppling down. He needn't be worried, because she sits in Steve's armchair soon enough to light a cigarette, placing a small cube wrapped in dark red shiny paper, too similar to the velvet of her dress to be a coincidence.

'You got me a present,' Steve exclaims, intentionally leaving Bucky out of the sentence.

'The selfishness of the old has no limit,' she tsk-s and winks at Bucky. 'It is a small traditional thing I have made for you _and James_ , István. A Hungarian Christmas cookie.'

'You can make those?' Bucky is as blunt as ever and she seems to find nothing but amusement in it.

'Yes, James. I can make _anything_. These.. well, they have their own story.'

Bucky is nonplussed by the vagueness of her admission.

'What's the story?'

'Bucky!'

' _Please_ , it is alright. It is a good story. You see, James,' she starts in that didactic tone Steve's gotten used to by now, but is afraid will seem condescending to Bucky. 'I had a friend once, a room-mate, a half life ago. She was Hungarian, Catholic, you see. Her _anya_ – mother – had taught her a special recipe when she was a young girl, passed on through the generations of the family, mother to daughter. A _secret_. But I loved the cookies so much, my Magda taught it to me. She was a kind soul like that.'

Steve dreads what Bucky's next question might be; supposing it's the one he'd like to ask himself, were it not for its obvious breach of the limits of propriety. Bucky, however, doesn't say a word, only nods and busies himself with ladling the mulled wine simmering on the stove into their mugs. Éva nods back, first in Bucky's then in Steve's general directions – and there's a smugness in it Steve definitely doesn't appreciate, but doesn't know how to address.

'Shall we watch some news? There was supposed to be an address by the presidential candidates in the US,' he fiddles with the TV remote.

'Better to get it over with now, so we can enjoy ourselves,' is Éva's reply to which Bucky shrugs, setting the wine and a box of different assorted cakes he'd ordered.

Steve regrets his suggestion right away, as they're thrown smack in the middle of a report on Bellock, reciting trivialities about universal family values and the importance of Christmas, followed by the opposition candidate's curt statement about seeing 'purple aliens and handsome sorcerers, but no Jesus'. Steve knows, rationally, he should be rooting this Rick person, but is finding it difficult to justify more than an indifferent 'whatever' reaction for his tone-deaf speech.

'Maybe we'll abstain from news of the homeland for an evening,' Bucky turns off the TV, which reminds Steve this would be as good of a time as any to bring out his gift.

'Gifts, then?'

'Sure.' Bucky seems slightly embarrassed and disappears into the bedroom, supposedly to bring out the gift they bought for Éva as a joke. Steve is surprised to see him come in with the small candy-wrapped box and an additional white envelope with his name on it. For some reason, though he'd obsessed over finding a gift for Bucky, he hadn't expected to receive one in return.

'So, this is from Steve and me,' he lays the present on the table in front of her. She rubs her palms together and starts ripping the paper away with the zeal of a child. While she's at it, Bucky hands the thick envelope to Steve.

'Merry Christmas, pal.'

'Thanks, Buck.' Steve makes a motion to open the letter, but Bucky's metal hand stops him almost instantly.

'Later,' he makes it sound like a plea.

'Okay, but hey – I've got something for you too. Éva, did you bring the thing?'

'You would have an old woman carry that large monstrosity,' she whines. 'Go get it, it is in the hallway in my apartment.'

'Key?'

' _István_.'

Steve can take a hint and sprints over to her place, which he finds unlocked as suspected. _I'll never understand that woman_ , he thinks as he hurries back across the courtyard, his shoes slipping on the virgin frost beginning to form over the tiled floor. Éva's voice rings throughout the center of the building, with Bucky's carefree laughter coming in at the ends of each sentence. As soon as he opens the door, she jumps to give him a hug.

'I am in love with my cigarette case,' she whispers, holding it up as if he wouldn't remember the gift he'd selected.

' _Csillag_ ,' he awkwardly enunciates, pointing to the small shooting star engraved in the corner. 'I guess the other gift won't be as well received,' he nods toward the electronic cigarette abandoned in the midst of torn rolling paper.

'It is a good joke,' she winks and releases him from the embrace.

Steve suddenly doesn't know what to do with himself, and the huge bag in his hands. He walks over to Bucky and almost shoves the gift into his arms.

'This is for you.'

Bucky isn't as eager in the destruction of wrapping paper, but then he only needs one quick tug with the metal hand to tear off the top from the bigger box.

'A gramophone,' he announces. 'Thanks, pal.'

Steve isn't sure what kind of reaction he was expecting, but he can tell it isn't this one. While Bucky beams at him and goes about the task of setting the machine up in the corner of the room at once, he also doesn't make any jokes or regale Éva with memories of their early musical exploits. _Of course not_ , Steve rationalizes, _she can't know he's older than her._ This soothes the unspectacular reception of his gift until he notices Éva, observing the whole sorry scene from his chair like a disapproving mother.

'I remembered you always say that the music sounds more lived-in when you play it from a gramophone. And well, I know how much you love to dance so..' Steve awkwardly sticks a stack of vintage 45's he managed to collect from the antique shops given the short notice. He knows some of them, at least, will be to Bucky's liking. He makes short work of browsing through the forty or so records Steve has purchased, and his fingers stop when he gets to a sleeveless record with a dark blue sticker, DECCA printed in greasy-thick golden lettering. Steve tries to hide the smug smile that threatens his face – he'd _known_ Bucky would appreciate that one.

As soon as he clicks the mechanism into action and drops the needle, Éva jumps from the armchair.

'Oh, _Ella_ ,' she shouts, throwing her arms wide open and shimmying with the proficiency of one who'd done it countless times in her youth. _She doesn't even seem rusty, how is this possible_ , Steve is amazed. He _isn't_ amazed when Bucky joins her and they catch the rhythm immediately, mouthing the words to each other and prancing across the room. Bucky looks the same when he dances – like no time has passed at all, even if Steve hasn't seen him dance since the 1940s. He remembers Bucky presenting a similarly riveting performance that Christmas eve in Paris, dancing with a young freedom fighter who can't have been older than twenty at the time. The way he dances with Éva now is no different, all in, with full respect of both his partner's capabilities and their beauty. After A-Tisket, A-Tasket ends, Steve changes the record and plays more upbeat numbers Bucky used to enjoy. When he notices Éva's movements have grown tired, he plays My Funny Valentine to let her rest.

His friends sway together, Éva's head pressed just below Bucky's shoulder – the metal one, he distantly realizes, not that her posture betrays any hint of discomfort. Neither does Bucky's, who seems to be fully in his element, a lady in his arms. When the song ends, Éva kisses Bucky's hand – an unusual token of fondness from her, which doesn't seem out of place at all somehow. She walks over to the gramophone and takes the stack of records from Steve, giving him a very pointed look he can't decipher.

'Oh yes,' she dreamily sighs when she finds another song to her liking. It's an old French number Steve doesn't know; that his thinking about Christmas in Paris had nudged him to buy.

'Autumn leaves,' Éva explains. 'Dead leaves, in the literal translation. Perhaps you should dance with James, Steve, I spent for tonight.'

'I've had my last dance,' Steve blurts out without thinking.

Éva frowns at him and continues to translate the lines. As soon as it starts, Steve regrets buying the record. ' _I wish you would remember, the happy days when we were friends... when life was better, and the sun hotter than now.._ '

Bucky is standing in the middle of the room, looking reluctantly in Steve's direction. Éva keeps reciting what sounds more like a poem and less like a dance number. Steve doesn't know how to stop her, but he wants to more than he can remember wanting anything in _years_.

' _It is a song that looks like us, you loved me and I loved you and we both.. lived together, you who loved me and I who loved you.._ '

Steve stares back at Bucky, who promptly turns away.

' _But life separates those who love each other.._ '

Steve knocks the needle from the groove.

'Clumsy,' he shrugs before turning the damned thing off completely. 'I think it's time for dinner anyway, don't you think?'

Éva raises her eyebrows and motions for Steve to show her the way, looking like the cat that got all the cream, ever. Bucky, in the meantime, looks absolutely stricken. He excuses himself to visit the bathroom.

'Idiot,' Éva whispers, passing by Steve to sit at the table.

It only takes three servings of boar stew and a generous side of home-made _nokedli_ to reset the holiday spirit, after which they help themselves to the cookies Éva brought as a gift. Steve looks at their cornucopia in despair, devising several strategies to fit everything in the fridge and finding most of them inadequate. When the bells chime their midnight serenade, Éva asks for a toast.

'I am not one to call myself old, but my body is less easy to persuade,' she sighs. 'But – my new friends – we need a proper ending to this lovely evening.'

'Hear, hear,' Bucky agrees, hitting his fork against his wine mug.

'You have some _pálinka_ , yes?'

Shot glasses filled to the brim appear in front of them in no time. Seemingly, Bucky had thought of everything.

'To our good friends, to those we have loved no longer with us in the flesh, though always in spirit,' Éva starts. Steve blinks away the tears forming of their own accord. 'But _more importantly_ , to those who still remain to suffer our company each day. May they be adequately rewarded.'

They clink the glasses together, then a long silence ensues.

'Can you find a song on your phone for me, James? I know you young people can do magnificent things with your phones.'

'Of course,' Bucky says at once, to Steve's horror.

'Find me – it is called, _A csitári hegyek alatt_. Can you find that?'

Bucky fiddles a bit with his phone and smiles. A soft guitar introduces them to a bright female voice singing in Hungarian, the song neither festive nor jolly, but somehow still fitting. The lazy melody spreads through the apartment, the three of them following the drum's rhythm with little movements of fingers, feet or head – depending on preference. Steve finds it hard to believe this is the exact version of the song Éva had wanted to hear, but she smiles contentedly despite the positively morbid lyrics and the overall funereal atmosphere. As soon as the song ends, she stands up and thanks Bucky.

'A beautiful song,' she concludes. 'No soul will ever sing it like Magda, though.'

Both men find themselves at a loss for words.

'I am taking my leave, dears. Thank you for inviting me to your celebration, it was lovely. I have not danced so much since the seventies. Dancing is good for the spirit, even an _old_ one like mine.'

'Thanks for joining us, Éva – your help with the small fraction of food Bucky's ordered was much appreciated.'

'Come tomorrow, I will tell you where to send it.'

'Thanks for the dance, Miss,' Bucky decides to disregard propriety and embrace her. 'I haven't danced as much either, and in a similarly long time.'

'You can come give me lessons any time, James,' she accepts the embrace and adds a bit of strength to it.

By the time Steve says his own goodbyes – which are decidedly less fond, not for his lack of trying – Bucky is long gone from the spaces they share. Instead of rearranging the fridge top to bottom, Steve shoves whatever can fit on the shelves and leaves the rest of the boxes outside, where it's cold enough for the food to keep until morning. Feeling satisfied and deflated both at the same time, he goes back to his bedroom where he'd previously put Bucky's present at the foot of the bed. He circles the envelope as if it were a potential bomb, leaning in to inspect it before taking it in his hands and pulling the v-shaped part inside-out.

The contents seem to be paper as well: a couple of fresh, white sheets bursting with printed words, sheltering a more carefully folded yellowing page in the middle. Steve takes this one out first. He recognizes the drawing at once, the evening's odd atmosphere of history repeating itself finally becoming clear. Even without the date, scribbled as an afterthought in the lower right corner, he would have no trouble placing it in time, 1936, the day before New Year's eve. He'd slept through most of the week and missed Christmas in a fever. It'd been a particularly difficult winter, what with him getting laid off and Bucky having to take more shifts on both his jobs to afford the medication Steve's endless sequence of illnesses had demanded. When Steve finally awoke from his stupor, he'd felt ashamed, knowing whatever he did would hardly be enough to repay Bucky. Where words failed him, what he'd had left to turn to was his art and their slightly delayed holiday custom. So he'd drawn a picture – the one fluttering in his hands now – of the only thing he could allow himself to wish for in that moment: the two of them dancing around a mountain of food. Steve's unusually small frame is leaning into Bucky, hands aloft in what he'd presumed dancing would look like; Bucky rolling his eyes in jest, his knees and feet dancing in sharp contrast to his upper body which stands fixed against Steve, sturdy as a rock.

Steve had forgotten about the drawing, the fever which had returned with a vegence no doubt contributing to the general black hole of that holiday season. Still, a gnawing awareness of loss spreads through his whole body now as he lies down to read the rest of the pages, knowing full well it'll be a story similar to the picture, one Bucky had never gotten the time to tell. Steve thinks about his previous reluctance to dance, a resounding 'guilty' verdict slamming down on his chest for the crime of being... a bad friend? A bad _Steve_? The thought had crossed his mind even before Éva's suggestion. He'd wanted to be as happy as the two of them. He _still wants_ _to dance_. The realization takes him by surprise.

*

In the end, it's much simpler than the overwrought hypotheticals he'd tried to crunch the outcomes of in his brain all morning. Three lovely girls from the district homeless shelter come to pick up the food at Éva's behest, looking thankful and not in the slightest as judgmental as Steve had feared.

Once they're gone, he knocks on the door to Bucky's room, announcing their Christmas 'lunch' though it's barely past noon. Bucky doesn't immediately respond, making an appearance only after the food has been heating on the stove for some time.

'Smells good,' he yawns.

'That's all you.'

They mostly eat in silence, interspersed with Steve's incredulous accounts of the news from the States and Bucky's disinterested uh-and-ah's. While Bucky is busy drying the dishes Steve has washed, he rummages through the stack of records to find the one that's been on his mind since he woke up. Ten cents a dance – not the version they'd been used to, but one that would have to do. Bucky looks up from the kitchen towel and plate in his hands, at once aware and disbelieving at the turn of events.

'I owe you a dance?'

It might not sound like a question, but it has all the hallmarks of one. Steve doesn't want to push Bucky into reliving some ancient fantasy of his he'd been thoughtful enough to remember. He'd also fully understand if his behavior in the last months had made him suspicious of even the possibility of progress. Finally, Bucky might just _not feel like dancing_ in the moment.

All his reasoning aside, Steve is relieved to see his friend lay the plate and towel on the table and approach him.

'You gonna trample my feet like usual, Steve?'

'Probably.'

Bucky delicately places his flesh hand on the small of Steve's back and offers him the metal hand with an apologetic smile. Steve smiles back, taking the metal hand and squeezing it as firmly as he can to make sure it registers. Some of it is retreading old ground, but then – most isn't. Most is new in a way Steve hasn't allowed himself to imagine in years, and he finds he's happy to have orchestrated this particular _new_ memory with Bucky. They're simultaneously a hundred years old and barely twenty; in a moment that stretches beyond what Steve had thought his life would – or _could_ – be.

'You know, you're the only other person who hasn't made me feel like I'm utterly hopeless at this,' Steve admits as the song draws to a close and he hasn't stepped on Bucky's feet once, or at least he hadn't been told as much. Steve both needs to and is terrified of speaking. Bucky is rooted to the spot, his muscles tightening with each second they pass holding each other in silence.

'Thanks for the gift, Buck,' Steve finally manages.

'Thanks for the dance, Stevie.'

They untangle their arms, and Bucky heads back to the sink to finish washing up.

'You know, you still owe me another one.'

Bucky's fingers linger above the plate he was about to pick up.

'This year's?'

'Actually, 1944's. Or did you think I'd forgotten?'

Bucky doesn't respond, but Steve knows he gets it by the snort he packs around a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself from including a small Stucky fanfic Easter Egg! Steve's conversation with Eva about Nike of Samothrace was inspired by [Not Easily Conquered](https://archiveofourown.org/series/115516) by dropdeaddream and WhatAreFears – that fic cemented an eternal association between the statue and Steve/Bucky for me. Bonus points, it neatly fit with my ideas of how Éva would reason about its 'popularity' and resonates with stuff-to-come.


	4. The Proof In The Pink Pudding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A horrible-not-at-all-good thing happens. Steve finally decides to participate in life, though not in the way Bucky expects. Pepper is pulling all the strings, as it should be, since she seems to be the smartest of the lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm *so* thankful for each and every one of you reading/bookmarking/subscribing/leaving kudos/commenting – it really makes my day(s) swamped with real-world work easier to get through and gives me extra motivation to go on with this story (as if it were in my control, ahem). 
> 
> I'm afraid you'll probably want to smack Steve on the head some more after this chapter too, but what can I say – it's about the (im)possibility of change after all, and he definitely still has some learning/changing to do.
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter include terrorism, death and references to brainwashing, so do take that into consideration if it might be triggering or painful for you.

_'When you stir your rice pudding, Septimus, the spoonful of jam spreads itself round making red trails like the picture of a meteor in my astronomical atlas. But if you stir backward, the jam will not come together again. Indeed, the pudding does not notice and continues to turn pink just as before. Do you think this is odd?'_

_Tom Stoppard, Arcadia_

*

'It's January 10th, 2024,' Bruce announces as if the people by the platform aren't aware of the fact. 'Your timeline's been wonky, Steve, but let's try and put the date at when we know _you_ were in this timeline – younger you, that is. So say, a minute before you left to put the stones back?'

Steve nods, uneasy with Bruce's tone which makes what should be a scientific fact sound like a question. He'd presumed – wrongly, as is now apparent – that Professor Hulk knew what he was doing.

Bucky can probably sense his unease, because he raises his head to look at Steve in the suit, and just as they're about to make eye contact, his head turns to the side to avoid it.

 _Here we go again_ , Steve thinks. He's had a lot of time to think about what _starting over_ means, but he's just beginning to grasp the inadequacy of most people's –his own included – literal interpretations of the phrase. The word _over_ implies layering-new-paint-on-top-of the old, reusing a canvas to construct a completely different picture. It puts too big of an emphasis on what comes after, and sweeps the before aside. Life is rarely like that, it doesn't permit _do-overs_. He has the same problem with the concept of _moving on_ , which at least doesn't suggest the past can be completely re-written, yet still allows for the possibily of movement-from in one's emotional landscape; a fixed point you can remove _yourself_ from, or remove _from_ yourself. There one moment, gone the next, as if whatever you were running away from wouldn't follow.

For the most part, he's spent his time in this so-called future careful not to stray off any beaten path he'd created in his life with Peggy, afraid new experiences would change him from the person she'd loved, a person he'd become comfortable being. He was worried he'd somehow write over her life after having done that once already; that continuing would necessitate forgetting. This, Steve has realized in the last couple of days, will never be the case. Nothing ever truly ends, and nothing is forgotten.

We carry it all. We _have to_. Pain and happiness grow and collect on the mind like moss; they're extra limbs; hair you can never find scissors sharp enough to cut; transformations impossible to undo. When things happen, they leave us changed: from this changed state, we do not have the necessary means, the know-how, to retrace our footsteps and return to the 'before'. Because we are no longer the same person who took those steps, because sometimes it's hard even to navigate our usual spaces in our new bodies (he should know).

Peggy had known it all along, but was generous enough to keep the knowledge to herself. She'd handled the changes – her own, his – with grace and an enviable amount of understanding. She'd carved out a space for _the other Steve_ – chiseled at the edges of the Steve she'd remembered – until he could snugly fit inside. What did it take for her to do that, what did it _take away_? Steve looks at Bucky standing below the platform and realizes this is exactly what he'll be asking of him, too. And Bucky had done it once before – molded the image of his sickly best friend to reflect that of a superhero straight out of a 35 mm reel. To his credit, he'd never been sold on the idea of Captain America, but he'd also loved Steve Rogers, a Steve Rogers he never saw again after saying his goodbye at, of all things, a Stark Expo.

No wonder Bucky no longer recognizes him, after the changes they've both been subjected to. Only, Steve's were always voluntary. Bucky had never been afforded a choice in the matter. How will he deal with this new metamorphosis? Will it make it easier, or will it exacerbate the sense of otherness, of an essential mismatch between the familiar face and the stranger looking through its eyes? How will Steve? Does he even remember what it means to be that other person – to walk like his knees aren't hurting, or punch without fear of breaking his bones? The remaining worry he has is that after all is said and done – the fight won't have left him. That he'll have gotten another taste of it and found it hard to move on. That he won't know how to start over from this second. _To_ _continue_? It seems like an impossibility.

These are questions he should've at least _attempted_ to answer before caving in and agreeing to Pepper's plan, but once again, he'd been thoughtless. Quick to react, long to regret, has that become his M.O., he wonders? Seconds. He has only seconds before Bruce gives him a thumbs up and his large, green hand travels toward the keyboard. _I'm not ready_ , Steve thinks. _God, I'll never be ready, please stop this_ –

It's over before his brain can transmit the order to the muscles around his mouth and vocal chords to shout. He's staring at Buck as if holding on to dear life, but Bucky is turning his head away to say something to Bruce, and Steve thinks _I wish you wouldn't..._ Only this time – this time, he _knows_ what he wants Bucky not to do, because it's the mirror-opposite of their previous one-sided exchange on the platform and – yes – Steve had wanted Bucky to look away then. To _stop_ looking. Having his wish fulfilled now seems like a cruel joke.

 _I wish you wouldn't look away from me, damn it_ , Steve thinks, annoyed. It's too late. It would've always been too late.

*

**BREAKING NEWS Terrorist attack at Hall of Heroes opening: 10 dead, 53 wounded**

NEW YORK Last evening, 11:13 PM December 31st, a bomb went off during the official opening of the controversial Hall of Heroes, where members of the new Avengers Initiative and more than a hundred high-profile guests had gathered to celebrate the new year, which AI director and Stark Industries CEO Pepper Potts had called 'a welcome beginning' in her speech earlier in the evening.

First reports put the number of deceased at 10 people, with 48 wounded and 5 in critical condition. The first victim to be identified is Rani Chatterjee, acclaimed sociologist, who had left her associate professor position in Oxford to lead a team focusing on post-Blip public policy research.

The memorial hall was to be only one part of a larger institute, which includes an academic research center on the effects of the Snap and the Blip, gathering a team of 137 social and medical scientists from various prestigious international institutions; as well as a community outreach program with the mission of helping the homeless Returned.

There is still no information about the identities of the perpetrators, though many believe the bombing to be the work of the domestic terrorist group 'Saved Souls', which has carried out several coordinated attacks on non-governmental organizations to date, mostly targeting NGOs aiding The Returned.

The week prior to the opening saw hundreds of protesters in front of the new building, calling for postponing the event until total transparency about the decisions and actors of the October Blip was achieved. Presidential candidate Cassandra Bellock had supported the protesters' demands at the time, calling them the natural outcome of the underhanded way the Avengers have been operating for more than a decade. Bellock is yet to make a statement about last night's tragic events at the time of writing, with her opposing candidate Rick Jones equally refusing to comment.

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(Graham Ford for The Guardian, January 1 2024)

*

It's a little after 5 AM when the phone vibrating on the nightstand wakes Bucky. Steve and him had gone to bed around two, after a genuinely pleasant evening of sampling a dozen traditional cakes (he'd stopped himself at only a dozen this time to avoid a repeat of Steve's ire at the Christmas feast). After a thorough twice-over of the whole array of TV channels had resulted in Steve's consternation and Bucky's boredom, Steve managed to fish a whole Guy Lombardo New Year's Eve show from the early nineties from the depths of the world wide web. He then proceeded to criticize it almost in its entirety once he'd realized it wasn't the _original_ Lombardo doing the show, to Bucky's great amusement.

'Not everyone can live to a sprightly hundred and ten, Stevie.'

' _Of course not_. But why tag it the Guy Lombardo show when Guy Lombardo isn't even leading the band? It's false advertising!'

'Let's toast to that being the biggest problem in the new year,' Bucky had proposed.

'I'll drink to that.'

Spending time together was easier than Bucky had anticipated, even without the addition of Éva to drive the conversation. They mostly talked about Sam and Bucky's missions, to get Steve up to speed after months of only the most basic information. His friend's newfound, urgent interest in the state of the world – in contrast to his previous aloofness – made Bucky hopeful that he was ready to rejoin the living. After midnight, they listened to more contemporary jazz numbers, which sent Bucky on a one-way trip to dream country. The fact Steve, at his age, had lasted more into the night and had to rouse Bucky to go to bed had been slightly embarrassing, and something he'd been sure Steve wouldn't let him live down anytime soon.

Or at least, had the thing he's getting a flurry of messages and calls about now not happened.

'Understood,' he ends the third call in fifteen minutes with Agent 13. He hadn't expected to like her when they first met, the circumstances, granted, being less than favorable for making friends. Since starting his partnership with Sam, however, she'd often acted as their handler, and Bucky had to give credit where it was due. Sharon proved to be remarkably discerning, saving them more than once from running head-first into an ambush. What that said about the average competence of Pepper's ever-expanding network of Avengers staff, he didn't want to dwell on.

He lingers in the room for a couple minutes more, to give Sharon the time to call back in case there's a _fourth_ minute-briefing she wants to go over, but mostly because his heart breaks at the thought of waking Steve and giving him the news he's just received. When the bells ring for 5:30, he can't delay any longer if they plan on making the flight Sharon's arranged.

Bucky enters Steve's bedroom on the tips of his toes – even the door hardly makes a sound. He sits on the edge of the mattress, the side which Steve is turned to. The courtyard lamps are casting a cold light into the space, reflecting on god-knows-what to create a subtle violet filter for the scene. He reaches toward Steve – first with the metal hand, because it's closer, but he changes his mind and extends his flesh hand instead, because it's gentler. He nudges Steve's shoulder a couple of times and is thankful that there's still enough of the soldier in him to respond, before the use of more drastic measures. He'll get enough of a shock as it is.

'Bucky? What is it?'

Steve's hand automatically grabs the hand on his shoulder, bringing it down onto the duvet as he blinks his eyes clear.

'An attack,' Bucky starts. Before he's found how to continue, Steve is sitting up on the bed, testing hypotheses about which kind of attack would be important enough for Bucky to wake him up like this. He catches on in a matter of seconds, the knowledge written across his face in deep lines.

'Casualties?'

'Nobody we know died,' Bucky decides on a tactic of good-news-first.

'But?'

'It's Sam.'

The speed with which they're dressed, packed and ready to go is astounding. Steve doesn't spare a second glance to the apartment as he rushes out to the taxi with his duffel bag. Bucky is slightly more reluctant, taking a last look around the kitchen and living room under the pretense of making sure they'd turned off everything that needed to be turned off, lest their kitchen appliances send the building up in flames. Who knows how long they'll be gone, if they'll even return. Bucky has participated in his fair share of endings to develop a sixth sense, one which is definitely tingling at the moment.

The poetry book casually set aside on the sofa reminds him of the poem Steve read only a couple of hours ago, sitting in that very spot. What did it say? That the world ends with a whimper? _Bullshit_ , Bucky thinks. In his experience, confirmed for the umpteenth time this morning, what it always ends in is a fight.

*

Steve is so engrossed in the news, he doesn't even notice Sharon standing on the curb by the hospital where the driver parks their car. She's different – her hair is shorter, for one: not like Carol's, but enough to make a difference. Her face look rounder, younger: he wonders whether this is actually true, or if the fact he now has _many_ more years on her than the last time they saw each other is where the perceived difference really comes from. Another change is her clothes, much less CIA striped button-down and blazer and strikingly more Black Widow leather and tac gear. While he's still awkwardly gaping at her, Bucky jumps straight to the point which makes it obvious this isn't the first time he's seeing or working with her. On the contrary, they almost look friendly.

'Steve,' she curtly turns with a 'hello' when what she's actually saying is 'hurry up.' He tries to keep up, but both her and Bucky's sense of urgency over-rides any consideration for his age. They talk in what sounds like code, quickly exchanging numbers, agent field names and locations Steve's never heard of. While he's more than happy to see they're being efficient, he wishes someone would clue him in so he could contribute. _What with, Goldie_ , a voice that is very _Sam_ asks _._

 _What did I get you into, my friend_ , he apologizes to the voice. _I'm so sorry_.

There's little time for self-flagellation as he rushes to follow Sharon and Bucky from one meeting to the next, with the 'meetings' lasting approximately 3 minutes. It seems like the Avengers Initiative staff has requisitioned the whole hospital wing, judging by the number of what look like patients' rooms filled with computers and assorted tech. After what feels like an hour of this frenzy, they finally turn left and into a hallway with significantly less commotion. The blinds on the window to the room Sharon stops in front are half-opened. One look inside tells him all he needs to know.

Sam is laying in the private ICU room, connected to dozens of wires, tubes and pumps that despite probably being state-of-the-art, look positively medieval to Steve.

'Are we doing all that we can,' he can't help asking. Sharon treats him to an incredulous look before flatly responding with a very informative 'yes'.

Bucky looks somewhat uncomfortable between the two of them, both hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders drawn in on himself.

'I need to check in with security, I'll be back,' Sharon excuses herself.

'You could've told me you were working with her,' Steve sullenly says once he's sure she's out of earshot.

'What are his chances,' he asks when Bucky doesn't reply, hoping he'll do the same, seeing as Steve absolutely doesn't want to know the answer unless it's preceded by Sam jumping out of the bed and yelling 'you got pranked' or something to that effect.

'He's stable for now,' Bucky says quietly. 'They've brought in all the best docs Pepper's been poaching for Stark Industries, I'm sure if anyone can figure it out, they can.'

'I should've been there,' Steve curses at the thick glass, misting the surface with his breath. 'Damn it, I got that kid into this madness, that's on me.'

'You're _joking_ , right?' Bucky sounds furious. 'If you stop with this BS _now_ , I won't tell Sam about it when he wakes up. But if you say one more word to that effect, it's open season, and I ain't gonna save you from that. Just so we're clear.'

' _Bucky_. This isn't the time for snark.'

' _Steve_. Sam is a grown-ass man with more than a decade's worth of fighting experience, that's _before_ he met you. You gave him the shield for a reason. He accepted it, _for a reason_. Shit like this... it's part of the job, pal. He knows it. He _accepted_ it. Time you accepted it, too.'

Unwilling to argue, which is a more charitable way of saying _unable_ to argue with Bucky's reasoning, Steve sits on the blue plastic chair opposite the window, stretching his legs. His knees hurt as if he'd spent the whole night praying.

'Could you get me a coffee, Buck,' he surrenders any pretense of strength.

'Sure I can,' Bucky says at once. 'Black? Possibly really thick and Turkish?'

'Anything that's been in the vicinity of a coffee bean will do, thanks.'

Bucky hasn't been gone for more than five minutes, when Steve hears a piercing sound of high heels that he's _almost_ certain his friend wasn't wearing when he left. He opens his eyes to Pepper walk-running towards him, hair disheveled and sticking out in all directions from what's supposed to be a bun, in stark contrast to the perfectly starched black dress suit and matching shoes. He stands up just in time for her to throw her arms around his neck.

'Oh, _Steve_. I'm so glad to see you.'

This takes him by surprise and he almost topples back into his chair. They'd been cordial enough since his return, but never quite as _friendly_ , let alone enough to embrace. This tells him more about her state of mind than anything she can put into words.

'I should be the one saying that. How are you?'

She brushes a couple of strands of hair away from her face, turning left and right with a sigh as if looking for somebody to provide her with a satisfying answer.

'I'm okay.'

'Morgan?'

'She wasn't there, _thank God, Steve_.' Mentioning her daughter is visibly distressing. Steve gives her some time to breathe before going through the million questions he'd like to ask.

'Those poor people... I don't know how you and.. – how _any of you_ did this all those years.'

'One year at a time is how. And it's not like we were immune to wondering whether we were doing the right thing. Or _fighting_ about it, sometimes.'

She smiles sadly, 'Yes, you're right, you're right. I just – my daughter could've woken up an orphan this morning. I need to deal with that, you know? But I also need to _talk to the press_ , and _talk the families_ and, _my God_..'

Pepper throws her hands in the air, looking dangerously close to hyperventilating.

'Tell me where to start, Steve. Where would you start?'

His first instinct is to tell Pepper he doesn't know, or doesn't know _anymore_ , but that would be cruel. So he takes a couple of deep breaths, encouraging her to follow, and travels through his mind to a place he'd locked away long ago. The strategy muscle is atrophied from under-use, but he'd handled more complex, hopeless situations before – he still has it in him to help her on this one.

'First of all, you'll call Happy and talk to your daughter. Doesn't matter that you already did it, you'll do it again. You'll tell her you love her and that you'll be home in no time. Then you'll sit down in one of these staff rooms you've stolen from the hospital, put a security guard outside to make sure you're not disturbed. Tell him not to let anyone in. You'll take a deep breath and dial the first phone number from the list of families who lost someone last night. And when they pick up, most of them in tears or not even saying hi, who's that, you'll say – My name is Pepper Potts, I was at the party last night with your mother, father, sister, brother, husband, daughter, friend, lover, wife, son, grandchild. I'm calling to tell you how sorry I am for your loss. I only got to meet them for a short while, but they seemed like a beautiful person and even if you think I cannot begin to imagine your loss, please believe me when I say that _I can_. Then you'll listen to them cry or say thank you or maybe yell because they're angry and desperate and hurting. When they're done, you'll thank them for their time and say again how sorry you are. After you've gone through the whole list, you'll go to the bathroom and sort out this bun which is, honestly, quite pathetic' – Pepper chuckles through the tears streaming down her cheeks, as Steve brushes them away with both thumbs – 'and once you look into the mirror and see Director Potts and CEO Pepper Potts, you'll exit through the main entrance where all the reporters are. And when you stand in front of them, Director and CEO Pepper Potts will know what to say.'

'Will she?' Pepper asks, her hands covering Steve's hands on her cheeks.

'I have no doubts about it.'

'Thank you,' Pepper squeezes his hands and kisses him on the cheek, which – to his surprise – is almost as damp as her own. ' _Thank you_ , Steve.'

*

Two days later, the world is still reeling from the attack. Though most messages shared across social media are those of sympathy, there is a non-negligible number of schadenfreude Steve finds difficult to understand. While Bucky has been off following leads with Sharon, he's mostly been confined to the new Avengers Initiative facility, which is so devoid of any color or personality that it makes him physically ache for their apartment in Budapest. He also misses Éva – so much so that he's tried to call her on the phone, in a futile attempt to have someone to listen. Nobody talks to him here. Agents say hi in passing, presuming he's someone important enough to greet if he's staying in the nice guest suite, but nothing more than a vague respect to his position registers.

Having given up on social media because it was too depressing, Steve jumps down the rabbit hole of international news channels, just in time to hear Cassandra Bellock's address to the nation. _As if someone wants to hear what she thinks_ , he rolls his eyes before remembering the avalanche of tweets mentioning her and asking for a comment. She's obviously seen them too, because her narrow face is a mask of feigned empathy with smugness very badly concealed underneath, at least to his eyes.

'While we mourn for those we have lost last year,' she starts and there's a flicker of unexpected sincerity there, to Steve's surprise, 'while we look forward into our future wondering what it might hold, like we did in the last five years, we _must_ ask ourselves: who it is we want to be tailoring that future? Are we ready to throw our hands up in the air and shirk our responsibilities as citizens, are we happy to have decisions that should be our own made by a small, nepotistic elite which only cares about its own? My friends, I urge you – all of you – to ask yourselves, whether democracy can truly live up to its promise if it can be undone by the snap of anyone's hand, however gentle or well-meaning that hand may be? I have said this before and I will say it again – though I abhor terrorism and violence, violence begets violence, and reactions like the attack we've witnessed cannot be considered out of context. I can only hope the decision makers for whom this cry was intended have heard it for what it was: a cry for freedom, for self-determination, and that they will consider the wishes of the people they're adamant they are protecting in the future.'

'All of a sudden, I'm glad I'm half-deaf,' Clint says from behind.

Steve turns to see him and Pepper entering the suite, half of Clint's face bandaged and the other half swollen.

'Clint! What happened?'

'Ah, just your usual standing-too-close to the explosion consequence. It's okay, Pepper's getting me a new set of ears, I'll be better off than you, Goldie.'

Steve has an almost unstoppable urge to apologize, but what for? He wants to tell Clint he wishes he'd been there himself, only in that case, the casualty list might've been eleven instead of ten. That's the only difference he could've made, the way he is. The sense of helplessness overwhelms him.

Pepper takes the remote and turns the TV off.

'I can't stand looking at her,' she sighs. 'Seems like she's everywhere these days, she ticks all the demo boxes. Women love her, Republicans love her. Progressives love her. The only people who decidedly _don't_ love her are the Returned, and some of _them_ think she'd be better than Rick Jones, frat boy extraordinaire. Besides, who knows if most of them will even be able to vote in the election. It's a disaster in the making.'

'For what it's worth, I think your speech was beautiful,' Steve tries to comfort her.

'It's not enough. Nobody _knows_ me. I'm someone's power hungry widow, trying to fill a hole in her life, or else a rich bitch that wants to rule the world. That's what they're writing.'

Steve knows, because it's one of the reasons he'd stopped reading the comments on the online articles. A startling amount could be classified as wishing Pepper to die a horrible death.

'I don't know what to tell you. I'm here for Sam. I never cared about the politics.'

'Now's as good of a start as any,' Pepper shoots back, way too quickly for there not to be an agenda.

'What do you want?'

Clint and Pepper exchange a meaningful glance, followed by Clint shrugging his shoulders in an obvious leave-me-out-of-this gesture.

' _Steve,_ ' Pepper begins. 'I've been thinking. That perhaps, in the middle of all this uncertainty, people just need something old, something _good_ to hold on to, you know?' She doesn't even need to reach the end of the rehearsed speech before what she's suggesting becomes obvious to Steve.

'No, Pepper, absolutely _not._ '

' _Steve_ , listen to me – Steve, there's been so much change. So much mystery. If we could solve _one_ , if we could say – Captain America is still here, he's not dead like the newspapers say –'

'He's _not_ dead,' Steve near-yells. ' _Sam_ is the Captain now, and he's _not_ dead.'

'I know how this sounds, but please, consider _my_ position. What do I tell everyone? It will kill the morale with our supporters to know Sam's in a coma, that he might not wake up.'

'So what do you want me to do? Pick up where I left – where _he_ left off? I'm not that man anymore, I'm done. Get Strange, get Danvers, Thor, you've got a whole roster to choose from.'

'Because an overpowered comet of a woman will sit well with these people? Or an alien god? Or an arrogant sorcerer? _Steve_ , you're the only one who's inspired this nation time and time again, who's shown them that standing up for what's right is worth it, even for the small man.'

Steve is getting properly angry now, especially at Clint who's found something akin to an eighth wonder of the world beneath his fingernails and is refusing to look up.

'Spare me the PSA, will you? I was doing those propaganda films before you were born. I'm done now. I chose what I chose. I chose another life.'

Pepper recoils from him as if he'd spit fire in her direction. Clint finally looks up, with an expression of now-you've-fucked-up-and-I'm-not-coming-to-save-you. Steve is aware of his blunder, as well as the futility of trying to take the words back.

'So did Tony,' Pepper whispers. 'But you didn't have a problem asking _him_ to help, did you?'

Steve sighs, deeply ashamed though still angry.

'Tell me what the plan is, then. I'll consider it.'

'You _promise_?'

'Yeah. I promise I'll consider it.'

'You're gonna love this, buddy,' Clint laughs as Pepper starts outlining the main bullet points of the completely insane idea that is definitely _not_ going to work as intended, Steve can already tell as much. There seems to be an ace she's still hiding in her sleeve with regards to the plan, but he decides he's better off not knowing how far the fantasy goes. After all, he'd only promised to _consider_ it.

When Bucky comes in from the field late that afternoon, he collapses on the sofa next to Steve, their hands almost touching. Steve stares at his little finger, so close to Bucky's, trying to decide whether stretching it a bit to touch his friend's skin would be awkward or weird, or even _why_ he would want to do this, when Bucky's voice catches him unawares.

'I know you want to be here for Sam, but I was thinking.. maybe we could go back home for the time being?'

'Excuse me?'

'It's probably a bad idea,' Bucky tries to backtrack. 'Just, it seems to me, you don't like it here. There isn't much we can do for Sam now, except find out who's to blame. And I'm on that, but I can be coming and going from any place. I'd prefer it to be _our_ place, to be honest. Wouldn't have to worry about you being bored to death here.'

Steve can recognize an offered in-and-out when he sees one, and this is exactly what Bucky is providing him with right now. A chance to get away from the chaos, to think, to regain his bearings.

'You're right,' he says, selfishly. 'I think it's time to go home.'

*

Steve's been back in Budapest for three days, but it hasn't been the reprieve Bucky had hoped it would be. Two out of the three nights, he'd been woken up by commotion and yelling in the courtyard, every time late in the night, when he supposed most people would be sleeping. The only lights which consistently turned on were his and Éva's. Judging by the absence of other reactions, the neighbors had gotten used to these disturbances enough not to even be curious anymore. Either that, or they'd become afraid of the knowledge peeking through would bring.

The first time was another case of Capgras: a man had reported his wife to the police as an impostor. He'd only managed to get her out of the camps two days previously, having had trouble to locate any next of kin that would vouch for her. Éva left her apartment that night and tried to reason with him, but he couldn't be convinced. _This is not my wife_ , he kept repeating. The police took her away. The second was a different situation altogether: someone had reported a Returned fugitive, hiding from the authorities with his mother. The shrieking of the old woman as the special unit dragged her son away echoed through the building for half an hour at least, and then, in Steve’s head, until the morning.

‘Why didn’t you go out to talk to her,’ Steve asked Éva in the morning.

‘You have to pick your battles,’ she’d sighed, visibly distressed. ‘What could I possibly tell her?’

Bucky hadn't been there for any of it – flying out a mere couple of hours after they'd returned, and checking in with Steve every day since to say he'd been delayed. Steve can understand, is grateful even, that someone with Bucky's skillset is working to apprehend the people responsible for what happened to Sam. However, Steve is also mortified at the idea of the same thing happening to Bucky. It'd been hubris to think nothing could hurt his friends after Thanos was defeated. That something as 'trivial' as a bomb or a mission could go wrong, and injure or even kill them. Steve's mind wanders back to Sam's side where he'd slept two nights in a row, hoping against hope he would wake up, playing Marvin Gaye's Trouble Man like he had done when Steve was in the same position. After Bucky. And what if it had been Bucky on that bed? What if it had been the both of them? He'd lost them once already, but then the whole world had collapsed in that same instant, Steve hadn't had the chance to process that loss. Moreover, he'd had the hope – the drive – to do something about it. What could he do now, what use could he be as the man that he is? No use at all.

 _That's not exactly true_ , a voice from within warns. _Pepper gave you another option_. He still couldn't help Sam, but perhaps he could keep Bucky away from harm if he took her up on her offer. What that would mean, though: for himself, for the unnaturally long life he's lead so far, for Peggy... it hurts to even think about. He brushes the thoughts away, recalling Bucky's words about Sam: he'd accepted the shield, knowing what it was. Bucky had similarly accepted to be part of the new Avengers Initiative, also fully aware of what it would entail. Steve thinks, perhaps it's time he let his friends make their way on their own. _And isn't it funny_ , his conscience warns, _that this is the time you choose to honor their decisions_.

Éva knocks, then lets herself in, just as he's beginning to form a scathing reply to this internal judgment.

'I brought coffee,' she announces, nudging the hallway door with her hip and entering the living room area. Her choice of dress reflects Steve's mood: it's a subdued, light-gray woolen one-piece, at once cozy and stern-looking.

Once their morning ritual set is arranged on the table, she sits on the sofa, frowning amicably in Steve's direction where he'd kept his post in the armchair.

'I have a question for you,' Steve announces, deciding to omit their usual pleasantries. She opens her palms wide above the table, signaling her readiness to receive it. ' Do you think it's possible to give too much of oneself to the world?' 

' _Too much_? If we give something, it means it was ours to give. And if we are alive after, well, István, it means we are not done with the giving.'

'Don't you feel like it sometimes, though? Done? _Finished_?'

'Is this your idiot friends I am talking to again?'

'No, I'm afraid the only idiot in this scenario is myself.'

Éva smiles, extends her hand to put it on top of Steve's.

'Do I feel tired? Yes, a lot. Over and over, around and around, up and down. You know Joni Mitchell?' Steve nods, knowing he should, but only vaguely aware that she's a musician. He remembers a song about a taxi that Sam, of all people, had made him listen to, but otherwise fails to understand her relevance to the conversation. 'The _carousel_ of time, she calls it. A circle _game_. Funny, no? How it is a metaphor always related to children, to youth? Time?'

'I guess? I can't keep up with you sometimes, if I'm being honest. How does this relate to my question?'

Éva is animated now, jumping on the sofa to scoot closer to Steve.

'But it does. Because István, you take yourself too seriously. _I am tired. I have nothing left to give,_ ' she adopts an impressively authentic Brooklyn accent. ' _No_. Life is a game, a circle, a carousel. You can jump off and choose your position on a carousel, yes? The earth keeps spinning, but you are also the one who decides how you see it. And always, at each turn, the outside is new. This is something to look forward to, not something to fear. I cannot help but think you fear you will see something new, so you shut your eyes very tightly and repeat a film from long ago.'

'Maybe,' Steve accepts. 'But what would you have me do?'

'I would have you _live_ ,' Éva exclaims. 'Me, when I am tired, I have a cup of this coffee right here,' she raises her cup for good measure, 'I wash my face with cold water and _ahhhh_. Here I am again. It is me, I am living. _You_ are mistaking weariness, tiredness, for finality.'

'I don't know..'

'Tell me, if you do not give what you have to the world, who else is there to receive it? Receive _you_? Yourself? I am afraid it does not work that way.'

'The other people in my life,' Steve tries, confused.

'Are they not part of the world? Does the world not affect them?'

'I guess it's different. Sharing yourself with one person and with the whole world.'

'It's only a question of scale, István. The act itself is often the same. If it is true giving, without expectations of reciprocity.'

'Is there ever such a thing,' Steve wonders.

'I still believe there is,' Éva smiles.

'But,' Steve tries again to argue for his point of view, 'I'm not going to stay in this world for very long. Isn't it better for people who _will_ to make the decisions? Find their own way of righting wrongs?'

Éva shakes her head laughing, then lights a cigarette to prolong the dramatic pause.

'The young cannot erase the past they are left with, much like we cannot. The world has one life only, and it collects its scars. Keeps them, selfishly. Whatever we do, however ingenious our method, to erase our mistakes – we cannot. What we _can_ is try to make it easier for those who pick up the baton, yes? _That_ is our _responsibility_.'

The conversation stays in Steve's mind the whole day. He wonders what Peggy would do in his shoes, even though he doesn't _really_ have to wonder – there's the history he's lived through with Pegs, where she'd never given up once or gone with the flow if she saw a thing going sideways. Hadn't he been the same, once? Wasn't that the reason she'd fallen in love with him? And then, Éva is similarly astute and just as blunt. They would've been like two peas in a pod, had time allowed them to meet, he smiles to himself pouring a glass of red wine. _Bull's blood_ , they'd called this particular sort in Hungary, as Éva had informed him. It'd been tied to a legend which, as most folktales, turned out not to be true – how the wine dripping down the soldiers' beards had looked like blood to their Ottoman adversaries, and scared them witless into defeat. Steve would've guessed as much without the history lesson, having gone through enough wars to know the enemy only grows more vicious when frightened, like a cornered animal. Tonight, though, he lets his imagination take him on a journey to a faraway past where winning battles is easy due to the wine one's been drinking, and hopes it will afford him a similar victory when he finally tells Bucky the news.

*

'You're gonna do it, aren't you,' Bucky asks, still reeling from the information dump Steve has greeted him with. He hasn't even slipped out of his tac suit, and they're already having an everything-changing conversation, Steve slightly tipsy by the look of it and him, well, standing in the middle of the room, not sure whether to backtrack and slam the front door or to take Steve by his collar and shake him into common sense.

'Yes.'

'You really _did_ take all the stupid with you. You've just been saving it for this particular occasion.'

'I guess so.'

Bucky's silence is electric. He keeps shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clenching and unclenching his fists. The whole point of suggesting going back to Budapest was to keep Steve _away_ from harm, and this is what it accomplished. Bucky has to give mental props to Pepper, for talking Steve into this when he wasn't around. He's sure she'd picked her timing precisely with that in mind.

'There's no way I'll change your mind, right? You’ve already told them you’ll do it.'

Steve looks away and nods.

'I'm supposed to leave tomorrow morning. If you don't want to, you don't have to come.'

Bucky decides he needs to slam _something_ , but he isn't going to be a passive observer this time. He makes sure the violent push against his bedroom door is heard.

In the morning, he's equally loud with the bathroom doors and the shower curtains. When he finally makes his way to the kitchen, Steve is sitting in his usual armchair, a suitcase conspicuously waiting in the hallway.

'Here we go again,' Bucky sighs, taking the suitcase in his metal hand and throwing his backpack over the other shoulder.

'Let's just say bye to Éva before we leave,' Steve says apologetically after Bucky has locked the two sets of doors to the apartment. They traverse the courtyard and knock on the chipping green wood. She appears in no time.

'István, James.. leaving for a trip?'

Her surprise is anything but, Bucky can tell at once. She'd been expecting this call.

'Yes, well...' Steve fumbles, of course. 'I need to go to the States for a while, I'm afraid. _Health issues_ , you know how it is.' Bucky is sure she _doesn't_ know, and Steve is anything but convincing. Still, she plays along. 'You've been such a good friend to me, Éva. My grandson might visit with Bucky soon, I wish you'd teach him some of what you've taught me. If it amuses you.'

'Oh, I am certain it will amuse me greatly, my dear István,' she says, embracing Steve, winking at Bucky as she does. 'Send this youth to me and I will _straighten him out_. This is what you want?'

Steve is perplexed, fishing for words, and Bucky finds some mean joy in it, given how he'd left him just as speechless the night before. It is, however, a short-lived lull. As the private plane ascends from the small platform, leaving the river and its many bridges below a heavy blanket of clouds in, he wonders what going back will mean for him, for Steve, for their life together they were barely beginning to settle into.

His mind drifts of its own volition to the fight on the helicarrier, and his later self-imposed exile in Bucharest: another home he'd been forced to leave behind. The memories he had in those early years could be best described as a Franken-mosaic of images that might, or might not have been, his own recollections. There were fragments which seem deceptively – almost palpably – lived, but he'd taught himself enough about psychology to guess they were only echoes: implants caused by repeated readings of the _Captain America: The Early Years_ monograph he'd picked up at the Smithsonian exhibit; internally motivated by an obsessive need to have a point of view that was his own. Borne out of a necessity for agency, for more than second-hand observation. It was hard to reconcile that a war could happen while you looked on, through the same set of eyes still nestled in your same skull, yet still unable to produce one beyond-the-shadow-of-a-doubt true thing about it.

Well, _another_ true thing, because there had been the one – hadn't there – there'd been the one that had stopped him from pummeling Steve into oblivion, the one that had propelled his body to dig desperately downward in the water, between the debris, looking for Steve's hand, to pull him out to the safety of the river bank; simultaneously pulling the sliver of the image he'd glimpsed, had rescued from Hydra, to inspect it in the light of day. To compare it against the man who'd thrown down his shield and refused to fight him on the hope – not even the _chance_ – that he, the Winter Soldier, _Bucky_ , would know him. 

It wasn't even an actual memory, it was more of a feeling – something in his blood that had _learned_ Steve many years before and refused to let the knowledge go; his smell, his smile, the timbre of his voice, the way he still – after living in this future neither of them recognized – inflected the words in a way more familiar than the Winter Soldier had ever heard. Bucky's whole _body_ had remembered Steve, even when his mind could not.

He'd read a lot about memory after. A passage from John Locke particularly haunted him – the philosopher had written that ' _as far as this consciousness can be extended backwards to any past Action or Thought, so far reaches the Identity of that Person.'_ The man he was then had wondered what this meant for him in relation to Bucky Barnes, or the Winter Soldier for that matter: who did his consciousness make him? He wasn't sure about who he _was,_ it was easier to know who he wasn't. When the attack on the UN happened, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that _wasn't_ him. Not because he hadn't done worse before, but because the strategy had been so far removed from the way he knew he'd have done it. He remembered everything of that life, the Winter Soldier's life, more than he did of what had come before, sometimes even more than the life he'd been living at the time.

Did that mean the assassin had become his _true_ identity? Every time he faced that possibility, he closed his eyes and tried to go back to that day on the helicarrier, to Steve, or rather – the memory of Steve in his bones, in his blood, in everything and all he knew himself to be. Steve standing on a platform, looking straight at him, ready for a dance instead of a fight. That was the image that saved him; undid decades of conditioning and let him see, finally, through his own two eyes without the filters that had been put in place by his previous handlers. If the scene had actually happened was anyone's guess: he never asked Steve about it, and now he no longer wanted to.

Some stories turn into personal myths that are hard to dispel, and Bucky does not want to verify this one. The parable is woven so neatly into their collective tapestry, that he feels if he were to pull on the string, it would undo everything and leave them drowning in a pile of colorful threads – predominantly exaggerations, if not outright lies. Family mythologies become the narrative backbones for the histories of those suddenly homeless in the world. This was the first vertebra in the column that held his new life aloft, he would not to risk it.

Throughout his time in Romania, he gradually became aware of other bones, bits and pieces of cartilage he found difficult to assemble into a coherent, working body of episodic memory. He'd gathered various confidential files on the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes – two men, two histories _._ The sparse information seemed to mock him from the pages. Don't you remember this? How can you not? This is the park where you played with the neighborhood kids, Steve looking on: he always stood in that particular spot by the fence... There was a fountain somewhere in the back – he'd found it on a photograph, rendered in black and white; a half-orb of mosaic tiles with holes for the water to shoot up through. Even though he eventually saw it in real life, the image that first comes to his mind is still in gray-scale. He cannot instantaneously recall whether the tiles were actually colored, and has no way of confirming it now it was torn down to make way for an artisanal ice-cream parlor. Perhaps this is what happens to all of our lives as we grow older, Bucky thinks, hundred-years-old brainwashed assassins or not. The pieces get replaced one monument, one fountain, at a time. By the end – it is not our actual past we are left with at all.

'I wish I could _really_ remember,' he'd told Steve on the elevator down to the base in Siberia, after they'd reminisced about Dolores – Dot – whose name Bucky still hasn't managed to pin to a face.

'I wish I could forget,' Steve had replied. And what do you say to that?

 _No_ , Bucky had thought. _I wish you wouldn't._ If _you_ forget, who will know me? Not the me as I am now, half-man, half-mindless soldier; but the _real_ me, the one who'd been willing to spend all that money on a girl he won't even remember just because it would've inappropriate to spend it on _you_. As he looks at Steve in the time-travelling suit now, the future looms uncertain ahead and he wishes the only constant in his life, the person he'd tied his identity to, had been anyone else. Isn't it funny, he thinks, how he'd accused Steve of returning for a witness, which was hypocritical to say the least, because Bucky had needed him to be just that, just as much. More than losing someone he loved, _loves_ , losing Steve equates to losing himself. He can't imagine any life beyond him; doesn't want to. He turns to Bruce to ask an inane question as he presses the button. He's afraid to turn his head once the deed is done, the question he thought he'd finally answered back to haunt him.

How do you live after change? How do you love?

*

OMG, OG CAP IS BACK!!! #EveoOfSteve

Geoff Miller [@realGeoff]. (2024, January 12). Twitter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V9VoLCO-d6U) is the Joni Mitchell song Éva mentions in her conversation with Steve. There's also a wonderful piece on memory loss on Aeon I stole the John Locke quote from, so if anyone wants to read the whole thing, [here it is.](https://psyche.co/ideas/memory-involves-the-whole-body-its-how-the-self-defies-amnesia?utm_source=Aeon%20Newsletter)
> 
> Please feel free to comment, hate on Steve, send your love to Bucky and so on. :)


	5. The Changeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve have a lot to say to each other, and most of it isn't pretty. We visit the past in a flashback to a conversation before a certain journey took place from Steve's perspective. An Avenger finds her way back home to help with the pile of not-good-things happening all around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reporting for my Monday update duty! Thanks to everyone who's been keeping up (and some of you who are maybe finding this now, in which case – I do apologize for the chunk of text you've had to go through to get here). It probably goes without saying, but I do so appreciate ALL of you. 
> 
> I've included a tiny bit of backstory about what preceded Steve's decision to stay in the past, though worry not – he remains smackable, that is to say, in character. *However* I do find myself having some more sympathy for him, confused poor soul that he is, and I hope that comes across in the writing. It's a bit of a chore to write around Endgame-as-is, adding bits and pieces of what might not have been shown, but could've happened. You'll have to suspend your disbelief for a second or two, though it all makes sense in my head and hopefully it will in yours, too. That said, this is one of those chapters where nothing much happens apart from (hopefully) character development.
> 
> Content warnings include some swearing and painfully obvious miscommunication.

Bucky has been sucessfully avoiding Steve the entire day, which is some feat given he'd stupidly agreed to sharing the guest apartment with him, oblivious to how he'd feel about seeing New New Steve prancing about in a body that had once belonged to Old Steve (Old-New Steve?). He grits his teeth thinking about the sheer insanity their lives have been, so much so that soon there won't be enough adjectives or combinations thereof in the English language to define the changes they've gone through.

Paradoxically – after the trouble he's had accepting the old man his friend had come back from the past as – he's having an even worse time trying to prepare for a conversation with the de-aged Captain America who'd stepped off the platform in the morning. He'd half expected him to be wearing that damned uniform underneath the time-traveling suit instead of the grey slacks Pepper had provided, something stretchy that could mold itself to fit both his frames. Bucky had simultaneously wanted to comfort and smack the bewildered expression off his face, which on the New (old) Steve would've been somewhat charming, but on this new one seemed out of place, a humblebrag almost. Something like the previous awkwardness Steve had radiated back in the war, like he himself didn't believe it was his body doing the fighting – only now, he's had enough time to get used to it. _You don't get to play coy anymore_ , Bucky thinks.

Unfortunately, come evening, he's no longer able to find briefings to crash (with not a little sympathy from Sharon, who'd looked at him as if she knew exactly how he was feeling) or records to inspect in excruciating detail.

'You'll have to talk to him sometime,' Agent 13 concludes, stretching her arms above her head and collecting her things from the desk opposite him. It's nearly 9 PM. 'Better to rip it straight off, like a band-aid.'

The mere suggestion of actually communicating with Steve makes him groan in protest. What's worse, Bucky wonders – living with an illusion of a possibility that what you want is within reach whilst knowing it to be unattainable, or having a constant reminder that the unattainable thing is indeed just that? Having had plenty experience with mind-bending realities and things appearing not as they are, he'd gladly opt for the latter.

 _This changes nothing_ , Bucky repeats on and off the whole day, until he's come close to believing it. However, one look at Steve perched atop the kitchen counter – spine ramrod straight, holding the massive body up without a trace of difficulty – flushes all his autosuggestion crap right down the toilet.

 _Steve?_ , he thinks, and the name fits – the label aligns with the representation in his mind almost too perfectly. Only Bucky is calling to a man he knows will never hear it, because this, here, at once is and isn't the Steve Bucky is desperate to reach. The mental acrobatics in attempting to differentiate them are exhausting.

'Hey, pal,' Steve greets him, still focused on the mug between his hands. 'Any longer and I'd have sent out a rescue mission.'

'Research,' Bucky shrugs, toeing his shoes off and settling down on one of the three oval sofas arranged in a circle. That way, he doesn't have to look straight at his friend while still keeping him on the edge of his field of vision.

'Found anything?'

'Negative. Have to go back first thing.'

'Of course,' Steve nods. His voice is different – that much Bucky had noticed straight away – it sounds like the same voice that had told him, mere months ago, that things would be okay. His movements, however, are unusually stilted – they're New Steve's movements, which were natural enough in his older body, but raise all kind of uncanny valley flags now. As he picks up the mug and walks over from the counter to the sofa opposite Bucky, he's much too cautious and aware of the action – as if expecting his knees to buckle at any moment. He sits down the same way, apparently afraid of sudden or too-quick movements that might provoke a memory of pain or tightness in his muscles.

'How was your day,' Bucky asks.

'Lonely.'

Bucky decides not to take it as a reprimand that would segue into a fight. He's only human, though, so he decides to be equally passive aggressive.

'I thought you had briefings. Sketching out the masterplan of how Captain America will save the world. _Again_.'

Though Steve likely detects the sarcasm, he doesn't address it.

'I _did_ have briefings. But I couldn't shake the impression that people were addressing somebody else, or talking _at me_ , not _to_ me.'

It's not difficult for Bucky to imagine that was, indeed, the case. As one of 'Cap's best friends', he's had to dodge many a question about Steve's whereabouts in the last few months, or endure long gushing monologues about how Steve's stand against Hydra, SHIELD, the UN, insert any other organization, big or small, or alien race he'd fought – had been the defining moment of the person's life, which had nudged them into a career in law-enforcement and with the Avengers Initiative Pepper was starting to re-build, in particular.

'Give 'em time,' Bucky tries to go for a comforting tone, but it comes out brusque.

'I'm trying,' Steve replies, and it's obvious he's picked up on the message between the lines, one Bucky didn't even intend on sending. 'Bucky,' he continues after a long pause, 'can you look at me?'

Bucky snorts as if it's the stupidest question he's ever heard, but only turns his head in the general direction of where Steve is on the other sofa, his gaze landing somewhere around the man's left shoulder and lower left quadrant of his face. Close enough, he concludes.

'What?'

'Do you.. do you still feel like I'm... _different_?'

Bucky laughs, meanly.

'We already covered this, didn't we? You _are_ different.'

There's a flash of pain across Steve's face, which angers Bucky more than the question itself. _How dare you_ , he thinks. _You don't get to be hurt. You chose this._

'We did. I just thought that, _now_..'

Bucky can't sit still anymore.

'That now what? I'd magically forget you lived a whole life in the five seconds it took me to look from the field toward that bench on the lake? That I lost my... – That I didn't even get to _mourn_ someone I lost because there he was, living in the bedroom next door, only, not really. Right?'

Bucky's pacing in the small circle the sofas make around the coffee table. Steve pulls his feet up and below himself to allow him more space, only Bucky doesn't want to go any closer, he backtracks to the furthest point on the circle away from Steve. Just as Steve opens his mouth to speak, Bucky cuts him off.

'It was never about your body, Steve, or how you look, whatever. If you don't remember, let me remind you, because we've been there before. It's the _years_. It's always gonna be the years, between us. Two black holes: the best of you that I'll never know about, the worst of me you know everything about.'

Steve looks stricken. So much for not starting a fight.

'I'm sorry, Buck,' he whispers, so quietly that Bucky can't tell if he was meant to hear it at all. 'I can't undo that. I wish I'd – I _did_ tr..'

He stops before he finishes the thought.

'Ain't it funny? You can live a whole life, return, settle in with me, and Pepper will come up with some half-baked idea for you to run right back into the fight, no second thoughts. What if I'd –'

'What if you'd what?'

It takes Bucky a second to decide whether he wants to know the answer to the question that's plagued him almost daily. It would be easier to walk out, shake his head – they've done this dance. They've already hidden so much from each other, had these half-conversations where the most important parts are omitted – have been having them for years. It's time someone stuck the landing, he thinks, and it might as well be him.

'What if _I'd_ asked you? To stay?'

Steve stares through the large window, silent, until Bucky figures it's as much of an answer as he's going to get. Surprisingly, Steve does speak after a while. His voice is almost broken – made all the smaller by coming from the mountain of a man he is.

'Why didn't you?'

Here we are, Bucky shakes his head: again, as always, perhaps one last time, with feeling. Pushing the ball to the other's court, waging another hundred year war over millimeters of space only to have the privilege to say – it's up to you now. He's grown tired of the game. He doesn't want to play anymore.

'Because you didn't want me to.' It's as honest as he can allow himself to be in the moment. 'Why didn't I –' he repeats, then jumps over the sofa nearest to the staircase leading up to the bedrooms. For good measure, he mumbles a 'Fuck you, buddy.' With his returned super-soldier hearing, Steve shouldn't have a problem hearing it.

*

Steve replays the last part of the conversation he's had with Bucky (before he'd told him to go fuck himself) until it's nearly dawn. He can tell by the way the dead winter light hits the houses on the small hill beyond the compound: it's almost as if he could reach out and touch them, rearrange them at will like a child's game, but they must be miles away. Funny how our perception betrays us in the most trivial matters: Bucky, who is only a couple of steps away, is probably more distant than those houses.

Steve has tried his best to reconstruct the narrative that has led them here, starting from the battle with Thanos and ending on the day by the lake, when his young self had told Bucky goodbye. But that hadn't been the conversation they'd both been alluding to. A couple of days after Tony's funeral, after Sam had gone to stay with his mother, Bucky and him had rented a small house an hour's drive from where Bruce was setting up the new time-traveling platform.

'I can't believe you've taken me on a weekend getaway,' Steve had been incredulous when they'd pulled up on the driveway of the quaint-looking home. Bucky had smirked, pleased with his ability to still surprise Steve.

'Call it a team building exercise then,' he'd quipped.

'A team of two?'

'All it takes.'

They'd spent the evening lounging on the obscenely large terrace, smoking cigarettes of all things, that Bucky had gotten while Steve picked out groceries – conspicuously focused on ice-cream brands and exotic produce he knew he would not be able to find in the past. In hindsight, it's clear what he'd been preparing for, but for _that_ Steve, the decision had been anything but obvious.

'Seriously,' he sighed as Bucky lit up.

'What? I never tried them, after. Thought I might relive the past, see if it was as great as I remember.'

'And is it?' The simple question was loaded with meaning he's only now beginning to understand himself.

'Of course not. Pointless, trying to recreate something that's long gone.'

'What if you could?'

'Hmm?'

'Hear me out, what if we really could?'

He'd seen the way Bucky's fingers had tightened around his cigarette, nearly breaking it in half.

'What are you talking about?'

'This could be an opportunity, Buck. To go back. To the lives we imagined, back when we still had it in us to imagine good things.'

'You _can't_ be serious.'

Steve had shrugged, eyes boring into Bucky's – who was returning his gaze with the same intensity.

' _Steve_. I've lived more than 70 years as an assassin for a shadow Nazi organization intent on ruling the world and exterminating everyone that stood in its way. Hell, I did half of the exterminating myself. And what, I'll go back to Brooklyn, to Becks, to my ma, and be _'here's Johnny'_? Although, they wouldn't get that reference, by the way. Because _it's been 70 years_. We'll all go and have Sunday communion together? That's not how this works, pal.'

'Not for other people. But we're not _like_ other people, Buck. It could work like that, for _us_.'

A mock grin had appeared on Bucky's face, an attempt at hiding something uglier bubbling underneath – something Steve had sensed, but could not categorize.

' _I see what this is_. You want to go and make that date with Agent Carter, don't you?'

'I don't know, maybe? Would it be so bad if I did?'

Steve had thought about Peggy in his calculations, of course: it would've been impossible _not_ to; but if he tries to remember his particular plans – if there had been any to begin with – they weren't necessarily tied to her. If anything, in the years following his return to the past, he'd had a much different obsession at first.

'Steve. _Steve_. I know I'm supposed to be prone to crazy sci-fi schemes, but pal – you sure take the cake with this one. No way I'm going back.'

'You'd be fine? Here, with – _without_...'

Bucky had looked at him with what Steve had believed at the time to be understanding.

'Yeah, pal. _I'd_ be fine. Guess you need to decide how _you'd_ be, here, there, anywhere. What's this really about?'

'I don't know, Buck. I'm trying to figure everything out. What Tony would've wanted, what Nat would, what.. what _I_ want. What it means, to have a life. Outside of all this.'

Steve had waved his hand around the balcony, the cottage, the forest – to be honest, those had seemed as close to a life outside of battle he could imagine. With Bucky by his side, of course. But Bucky's face had instantly turned dark.

'I'm afraid I can't help you with that.'

'Can't you?'

'What do you want me to say?'

Steve finally knows what he'd wanted Bucky to say that night. As counter-intuitive as it seems after everything that's happened, as odd it is to think about without a ready explanation, he'd wanted Bucky to ask him to stay.

'Oh, I'd hoped for some of that well-known wisdom of yours.'

'That was all a ruse,' Bucky had laughed. 'Hey. _Hey_.' He'd squeezed both of Steve's arms in lieu of an actual hug, moving to crouch below him, face as open and compassionate as it had always been when taking care of Steve – however small or big he'd been. 'You do what you think is right? Don't worry about no-one else. Do what's right for you.'

'I think I'm just tired,' Steve had replied. Bucky patted him on the back.

'For sure. Let's go get some sleep.'

That wasn't exactly the kind of tired he'd meant, but he let Bucky usher him inside, the pungent scent of damp wood and dry dust confusing his senses. No-one had lived in the cottage for years, that much had been obvious. Before retreating to his bedroom, Steve pretended to need a glass of water, hovering above the miniature sink in the kitchen, his eyes searching out for Bucky to tell him what to do. After those five years, after the battle and all that had happened – he'd been spent from decision-making, for the world or himself. But Bucky hadn't wanted to do that, because Bucky had always put Steve before everyone – himself, most of all. And though Steve should've known that was the case, he still resented his friend for the small act of kindness, which had made the coming night into a living Hell. He'd sat up in his bed until dawn, much like today; counting the hours to the meeting at the platform, keenly aware he'd need all his strength to finish the task before him, yet unable to shut his eyes for more than five seconds at a time.

*

Clint maniacally knocks on the suite door two days later. Steve jumps from the couch in an instant, running – expecting the worst, hoping for the best.

'Sam,' he asks breathlessly while opening the door.

'No change,' Clint yells, not yet used to his super-hearing aid. 'But I've got someone else here to see you. Come on, kid.'

He turns and shouts to the empty corridor, in which Wanda appears at once, looking unusually shy.

'Wanda,' Steve sighs with a huge smile, walking over to her in an instant and smothering her in a firm embrace. 'It's so good to see you.'

'You too,' she reciprocates, though it seems like she's looking straight through him, or else – as if her image of him keeps shifting, making Steve dizzy while trying to follow her gaze.

'Where have you been?'

She turns her head: not in any obvious attempt to avoid his eyes, more like she's seeing something else entirely in the sparse room around them.

'I heard about Sam,' she finally says. 'I'm here to help.'

'Thanks. We can use all the help we can get. Come on in, sit down.'

Bucky gives her a short nod from one of the sofas, which she returns. When Clint excuses himself, Bucky also silently retreats to his bedroom.

'You seem different,' Steve starts, now that they're alone.

'Right back at ya',' she smiles.

'What happened?'

'I.. drifted away, for a bit.'

'Drifted away? How far _away_? '

'Somewhere we could be together.'

Steve doesn't need to ask who the other part of the 'we' refers to.

'I can understand that,' he nods.

'I just wanted to say goodbye,' she quickly adds. Steve feels judgment in her statement, though it's likely it's all his own.

'Of course.' He thinks he wants to be finished with the conversation. 'And you did?'

'In a way? I'm beginning to think goodbyes are overrated.'

'You're probably right.'

'I thought if I could just.. If I could just tell him... _something_ ; if I could _touch_ him again, to not have the last memory of us be _that._. then I'd be done. But you can't be done, can you, with people you love?'

'No, no you can't.'

She continues, seemingly happy to share with someone, though what exactly it is she's sharing, Steve can't comprehend.

'But it didn't _feel_ like him. He'd been _more_. More than neural networks, more than that stone. There was a part of him that was still missing. And even so, I couldn't say goodbye.'

'Wanda, what happened? What did you do?'

She shakes her head.

'It doesn't matter now. It doesn't matter, I swear. I'm back, and I'm here to get these bastards who hurt Sam and those poor people. We can talk about this some other time.'

Steve isn't sure he likes the sound of that, but doesn't want to push a conversation she's obviously finding it difficult to keep focus on.

'You're right. Have you talked to Bruce yet?'

'He's brought me up to speed.'

'Good, that's good.'

'Steve.. how are _you_?'

Steve doesn't know what to say. He doesn't want to lie, but he's also wary of unloading, given how fresh her pain is – and only the pain he knows about, with much more simmering under the surface of her smile he can't begin to decipher.

'I'm beginning to understand how complicated this is,' he says. 'Trying to live two lives at the same time.'

'You can't,' Wanda replies at once. 'Neither of us can. We all have to choose.'

Something in her tone tells Steve she isn't decided just yet, whatever her alternative might be.

'Wanda, are you sure you don't want to tell me what's going on,' he offers again. 'Maybe I – maybe _we_ – can help.'

'I'm sure. I'm alright. But thanks.'

It sounds unconvincing to say the least, but then what else could he expect? He can't begin to comprehend what doing what she'd done had cost her - when she'd made true on that last-ditch effort to stop Thanos, only to see it reversed so cruelly and have the sacrifice be for nothing. Could he have done it? The first thing that comes to mind is his fight with Bucky on the helicarrier. And no, of course he couldn't have – he isn't as strong as Wanda, or as Bucky: Bucky, who would've hated himself for eons, but done what needed to be done regardless. That was the bottom line of the great lie, wasn't it: Steve had _always_ been selfish. When it came to sacrifice, he'd been so willing to make the play himself just to avoid the pain of losing those he loved.

*

**The Guardian**

**Headlines**

Monday

15 January 2024

 **Live** **/** UN Security Council briefing: Saved Souls operating globally, anti-terrorism measures being announced

 **USA /** Bellock reacts to CA return: 'I'd gladly sit down for a conversation with Rogers'

 **Europe /** ECU leadership on possible repatriation referendum: We will respect the choice of our citizens

 **Avengers** / The old guard is back? Wanda Maximoff aka Scarlet Witch spotted in New York

Mentally going over the details of his upcoming mission with Wanda – the first 'real' job Pepper's sending him on – serves as a good enough excuse for the lapse in attention which leads to Steve sitting stupidly in Éva's living room, sweating profusely as his brain scrambles to concoct some story – _any_ story – about why he'd responded to his 'grandfather's' nickname. It's true that, out of the two of them, Bucky is the assassin and has generally always been the more stealthy one, but this is beneath even Steve Rogers at his most clueless. She'd only needed to say hello to him, for fuck's sake, and he'd automatically replied – as he would've as the old man she knew. While he's working up to sell her on a story, Éva sighs in exasperation: looking not the least bit surprised, but _very_ disappointed.

'I am old. Contrary to popular opinion, that does not mean I have been replaced by a different actor in my life. Neither were you, I will add, just because you are back to _this_.' She motions around the body awkwardly squeezed into her armchair.

'How..'

'You think, because I lived in Eastern Europe, I was oblivious? We all knew the stories about Captain America and his gang of misfits, yes? Captain America and his best friend, the assassin with the metal arm? **'**

'I wouldn't say that part was common knowledge.'

'I can read between the lines better than most.'

'I suppose I don't have to ask you not to tell anyone.'

'Your secret is safe with me, István. I have never met Captain America, or Steve Rogers. I only know my dear friend.'

'Good,' Steve finally exhales. 'Let's keep it that way.'

The conversation flows surprisingly easily from that point. Steve tells Éva about Sam and the attack, about his decision to help out at Pepper's behest, about Wanda's return. He notably omits any mention of Bucky, with whom he hasn't talked since the evening of his grand return. That is, until he remembers Bucky isn't going on the mission with them and will be staying alone in the apartment. He's not sure whether he'll mind the loneliness: after all, they're both living as if the other doesn't exist at the moment, but the tight feeling in his chest urges him to ask Éva for the favor.

'I'll be gone for a while, I'm not sure how long.'

She rolls her eyes.

'Will your grandfather return in your stead?'

'No, no. Not _yet,_ ' Steve chuckles. 'I just – I thought, if you wouldn't mind checking in on Bucky, maybe have him over for a coffee sometime?'

Incredibly, it's this that angers her after the whole conversation they've just had, in which Steve had admitted to lying about who he was from the start.

'I am his friend as much as I am yours,' she chides. 'And I do not need to be told how to go about my friendships by you, of all people.'

Steve concedes the point, happy at least to find there's one other person looking out for Bucky. When he returns to the apartment, he wants to tell him about the peculiar situation with Éva, but his friend doesn't spare him a second glance. His gaze is super-glued the window, a cat gracefully perched atop the iron bars of the door across the courtyard getting the benefit of his full attention. Everything in the world seems to hold some lingering fascination for Bucky, apart from Steve, who finds himself getting _jealous_ of the poor animal. _How ridiculous can I get_ , he wonders, making sure to leave out some food for the cat as an apology.

*

Steve's been gone for a week before Bucky decides to casually inquire on the state of his mission during the daily briefing with Sharon. He'd picked up bits and pieces of intel from their conversations, which must've come from either Wanda or Steve, but he knows he's in for another sleepless night of overthinking unless he comes out with it and gets the information first hand.

'They're fine,' Sharon brushes him off, not unkindly. 'They've mostly been attacking known Souls cells in Eastern Europe, trying to gather information about the global network. But these fuckers are more independent than we're used to, they seem to be only loosely connected so far.'

Bucky nods, weirdly relieved that Steve is on the same continent. Before they finish the call and Sharon can saddle him with more files to look over, he grits his teeth and asks –

'Can you keep me posted on their progress?'

'Sure thing,' she shrugs and stops the holo call.

A few seconds later, there's a knock on the door. There's only one person who makes house calls in Budapest that they know of, and he's surprised to find her face a welcome intrusion in his morning ritual of sulking-and-worrying about Steve.

'Steve isn't back yet,' is still the first thing he says.

'You two, _I swear_.' Éva huffs, shivering in the cold, her breath a mist in front of her face much like the usual tobacco smoke. 'I am here to see _you_. If one is allowed?'

'One is,' Bucky smiles, moving aside to let her in before she freezes in their doorway.

'No, no, you come with me.'

'Yes, ma'am,' he obliges, quickly putting on a pair of sneakers but otherwise unprepared for the attack of the below-zero temperature in his T-shirt and sweatpants.

They settle in her living room, Bucky opting to sit on the ghastly floral-patterned sofa instead of the armchair which he knows to be Steve's domain. Éva rummages through her bookshelves while the kettle is on, paper flying left and right, falling to the floor. She finally locates what she's looking for: a small, thin paperback, in what looks to be German from afar. Even without seeing the title, Bucky could recognize that small face in the old army photo from any distance.

'You know?'

'I know. You knew I know,' she says matter-of-factly as she leafs through the pages and extends the book to him. It's another photograph: Steve and him above a map of Austria.

'I _suspected,_ ' Bucky corrects. 'Since when?'

'The first night? There are not many men with your set of skills, or with that.'

She taps her long, purple-painted fingernail on the metal arm to hear it ring. Bucky thinks he should probably mind the gesture, but coming from her, it doesn't feel ill-intentioned or mocking.

'Why pretend?'

'I did not pretend, _James Buchanan Barnes_. I let István be who he needed to be.'

'You think he doesn't need to be István – whatever that means – anymore?'

'I am not certain.'

'And you don't find it weird, to talk to him now? That he's _young_?'

'You and your friend are one and the same, I swear. You act like I have just sprung out of this earth here, ancient as I am! I have had plenty of conversations with young men _and_ women in my time, so you know.' Bucky quirks an eyebrow, and she winks at him in turn. 'But you seem to have an opinion on the matter, as well?'

'I think not even he knows who he wants to be.'

'And you know who you want him to be?'

Bucky's taken aback for a second. He isn't sure his take on the matter is relevant at all, but Éva seems to think so.

'I just want him to make up his mind, is all. He's giving me whiplash.'

'I suppose you would see it like that, yes,' Éva laughs. 'Tell me James, why are you still a friend to him?'

'Asking all the A+ questions today, aren't you?'

'They are not hard questions, my dear. Indulge me.'

'Because he's Steve,' Bucky says simply, frustrated at his lack of a better answer. Éva reacts opposite to what he'd expected, gleaming.

'Very good,' she says. 'It is an essentialism? The ship of Theseus. The loss of your arm did not make you any less James, or less _Bucky_.'

'One could argue that point,' he snorts.

'One could,' she nods pensively. 'But not István. _Your_ _Steve_ , he recognized you.'

'That Steve did, yes.'

'Yes. And after all those years – you still looked into the eyes of _that_ Steve and saw something you yourself recognized?'

Bucky wants very much to disagree, but she's right, of course.

'What's the point of this little exercise? You saying we never really change?'

'Oh, no. It is, maybe, that we are more than the sum of our parts. More than events we live through, more than _episodic memory_.' Bucky considers it a win that he knows what she means by that. 'Who we love, what we fight for, _if_ we fight or stand by the side. Our _dispositions_. You stay with your friend because you recognize he is your friend, the essence which made you love him is still the same.'

The way she sneaks the word love in there doesn't evade Bucky's attention, but she says it so unobtrusively, so naturally, that he can't find it in himself to protest.

'It is the same way he was once certain of you – the essential you; that it existed. Even when you could not remember him.'

'So I should just pretend everything's the same?'

'I would never ask such a thing of you. It does not have to be the same, it _cannot_ be. But you knew that, for a long time. Even before, did you not?'

'Knowing it and living it are two different things.'

'Yes. Yes, they are.' She sounds almost sad. Whether it's for Steve or himself, Bucky can't gauge.

'What would _you_ do, if you were me?'

'I am not you. If you are asking me to give advice – I would say, what you have with your friend is too precious to lose. Loyalty, I have seen it _very_ rarely. If you can – _if_ you can – I would try and get to know him again.'

'Start from scratch?'

'That is impossible, I fear. But building from today... that might not be.'

Bucky has another week to mull over what Éva says before Steve is done with the mission. During that time, he actually _googles_ what the ship of Theseus is, and finds himself engrossed in a philosophical thought experiment thousands of years old. It makes him regret, slightly, the shitty education they'd got – or had _not_ , more like. He'd always enjoyed contemplating similar conundrums, especially when they didn't concern him personally. This time, the intellectual exercise comes with not a little bit of wariness. He thinks about Steve, about himself. Each year they'd spent away from each other a rotten plank in the ship in need of substitution. He replaces them piece by piece in his mind, letting his body answer the question after each new beam or screw – is Steve still Steve after this? Am I still myself?

The answers are more difficult in the first-person, because there are clear essential differences between him and the Winter Soldier. With Steve, the changes had been more subtle. Bucky wonders whether everything we subsume or accept into ourselves, that we _let_ change us – is always in interaction with our other parts. After all, the new wooden beam will be carved so it can fit the larger structure, and will have changed simply by being incorporated into the whole. Perhaps you can never step into the same river twice not because it changes around you, but because the simple act of you stepping into the water changes it. What does that make us, then? Both the parts and the whole, at the same time? Bucky thinks that's as close as he'll get to an answer without a PhD in Philosophy.

*

To say Steve is apprehensive about what's waiting for him when he comes back is an understatement. He rehearses every form of casual greeting he can think of on the ride from the Budapest airport to the house, but they all fall flat. Perhaps he shouldn't say anything at all, he wonders, in case Bucky is still angry. In case he hasn't spent fourteen days trying to uncover the nuances of their last conversation like Steve has, to reach a point of understanding that seems to have eluded them both. When the cab pulls over in front of their building, Steve finds himself completely unprepared. He walks over to a small bar two streets away and orders a beer, aware there's no liquid courage that can help him anymore, but counting on at least a modicum of placebo to kick in.

It's late in the evening when he finally accepts the encounter as inevitable. The front door is unlocked, the light on inside. Bucky is sitting in the living room, watching TV and eating a bowl of popcorn. He acknowledges him with a nod. Yes, all the preparation has been useless, Steve grimly realizes before unexpectedly deciding to pretend nothing's happened at all.

'Do you mind,' he asks, pointing to the empty space next to Bucky.

'Help yourself,' Bucky scoots backwards, an invitation for Steve to sit on the couch rather than in 'his' armchair. He also tips the bowl of popcorn in his direction, Steve's heart fluttering at the gesture, even with his ass half-off the edge, wary of making contact with Bucky's legs.

'What's on?'

'I was watching the news, then it became too depressing. Then I turned to this French channel, and it's an even more depressing movie, but at least the actresses are prettier than Bellock.'

Steve tries to laugh, but it comes out more like a hiss or an air vent releasing steam.

'I've been reading your book,' Bucky says conversationally. The TS Eliot is indeed still on the table, from when they'd left to go to the States.

'Need me to explain something?' Bucky scrunches his nose.

 **'** _In my beginning is my end_ , **'** he quotes. **'** Would you say this is a beginning or an end, Steve?'

As he asks the question, he finally looks up and into Steve's eyes. For a terrifying moment, Steve is afraid he'll visibly recoil or frown; show some kind of displeasure at whatever he finds there. Bucky does no such thing. If anything, he seems _too_ calm.

'Bucky?' It slips out before he can think to stop himself. Why does their life always feel like a series of badly strung-together deja vus? Can't the writers think of something else, give him some better lines, Steve wonders. Bucky is still looking, waiting for the answer. Steve knows it's not one about the poem, but he needs to buy more time. 'Aren't they one and the same, according to Eliot?'

'Maybe,' Bucky agrees, then flicks a kernel into his mouth. ' _Personally_ , I don't think so. I think the way we define them for ourselves matters.'

'You've been talking to Éva, I can tell,' Steve laughs, emboldened, and throws another kernel at Bucky, who manages to catch it with his mouth. Steve would be impressed, if they weren't having what appears to be _another_ serious conversation, balancing on a knife's edge of what could at any moment turn into yet _another_ fight. At least Bucky isn't swearing at him yet. He decides to give respect where it's due, and ponders the question. Is this a beginning, or an end?

'It's true,' he says finally. 'What we think matters. But I don't have a clear-cut answer. What it feels like.. is an intermission? If that makes sense?'

Steve is afraid to say it, though it's something they'd discussed previously. This wasn't a permanent change, he'd made that clear. When they were done apprehending the guilty parties – when Sam was back, Steve would also go back to his old self. To his _literally_ old self.

'It does,' Bucky answers. 'Only, _my_ life can't be an intermission of yours. I don't want it to be.'

Bucky says it with no resentment at all. Steve is confused – he'd never thought about it from that angle, it hadn't even crossed his mind. Of course Bucky is free to live his life as he sees fit. But then, if he puts himself in his friend's shoes, the myriad ways in which the statement is true are obvious.

'What _do_ you want, Buck?'

'I want us to stop pretending. I want you to tell me about your life, I want to know you again. And then, I want to decide for myself.'

'Decide?'

'Whether I can keep doing this.'

Steve wants to ask what 'this' is, exactly, but he suspects he won't get a straight answer at this point. Besides, it isn't like he can't guess. Their lives have been so intricately tangled for so long – Bucky and Steve, Steve and Bucky, Barnes and Rogers, Sarge and Cap, Captain America and the Winter Soldier – he himself had sometimes been annoyed; had wished to be _more_ than just a part of the tragically dynamic duo.

'That's fair,' Steve says, weariness seeping through the cracks between words. 'Ask me anything.'

'Anything?'

Steve nods. Bucky pulls his legs as far away on the couch as he can manage, apparently reluctant to be touching Steve – however casually – before he starts. Soon enough, Steve's thankful for the space.

'Did you ever see me again? Or, the other me? Before the lake. Did we.. were we friends?'

Given everything he knows about Bucky and his guilt over the Winter Soldier, he should've expected this would be the first question. After all, it was karmically symmetrical that the main reason why he'd done his best _not_ to talk to Bucky about the other timeline was the first thing he'd need to come clean about.

'No.'

He pushes the word through clenched teeth. He's practiced this moment, has dreaded it, for decades. The joy he'd anticipated every time he thought of seeing Bucky again has always been mired by the realization that this answer would also be waiting, that he would need to confess how he'd done Bucky wrong, _once again_. Despite the many times he'd rehearsed the scene in his mind, the emotion hits him full force. He's frozen with fear that whatever they've built so precariously in the short time they've had since he got back will be irreparably damaged now; that after this conversation is done, Bucky will stand up and leave, and Steve won't ever see him again, except perhaps in some briefing or a mission where they'll nod in greeting not to be rude in front of the other agents, but complete strangers otherwise. Steve knows he'd deserve that – deserve more, for failing in such spectacular fashion, but he's selfish – _so selfish,_ and _please, no,_ he doesn't want to lose Bucky yet again. He doesn't even notice when he starts hyperventilating, oxygen quickly becoming a prized commodity. All he knows is he needs to get the words out, he needs to – Bucky _has_ to know he'd tried.

'I never found you. I _couldn't_. I tried, for years. _Decades_ , Buck, you _have to_ believe me. You _have to_. I knew where you were, from the files. So many ops, places you were held. But nothing was the same, all that was useless. _I_ was useless. I'm so sorry, Buck. I couldn't find you. I'm so sorry I couldn't find you. You _have to believe me_. I _did try_ to find you.'

*

The confession hits Bucky squarely in the chest. He doesn't know what he'd expected Steve to say: it was this exact thing, and the opposite simultaneously. As large as the multiverse may be, it's likely still too small for them to get a good beat in any universe. Ain't that just the funniest thing ever, he thinks bitterly.

When the first shock leaves him, he scoots over to Steve, whose face is buried in his hands. Bucky tries to pry them away to have Steve look at him – another hilarious turn of the tables between them in the short span of an evening. Steve won't budge, and Bucky understands this stubborn clinging to responsibility from his friend, at least. He wraps his arms around Steve from the side, the vibranium arm firm around Steve's front across his shoulders, the flesh one lightly stroking his hair. His _golden_ hair, Bucky thinks distractedly, not a silver strand in sight.

'I forgive you,' he whispers. 'Hey, hey, buddy? It's okay, I forgive you. It's gonna be okay.'

Steve lets go of his face after a while and clutches the vibranium arm with both hands. Bucky isn't sure what exactly he's forgiving him for; whether it's even in his power to do so. But if Steve needs to hear those words, he can have them. He can have Bucky's absolution for a sin done to that _other_ Bucky, wherever the poor bastard had ended up.

Forgiving Steve for the hurt he'd caused _him_ – the flesh and blood man sitting in the living room in this moment – he's not sure he can make any promises to that end. But he'd meant it when he said he would try. If there's enough Bucky Barnes left inside him, perhaps there's also enough Steve Rogers in the man he's cradling in his arms now to give it the old college try. At least, that's what he counts on when he rests his head against Steve's and inhales that familiar scent again – clean sweat mixed with grime; a sprinkling of war and fire; Paris in the evening. Who we love, what we fight for, Éva's words echo in his mind. That which is real, inextricably us: after centuries, after changes. That which stays.

 _This is real_ , Bucky thinks, satisfied with the truth of the conclusion. More cautiously, he adds: _this will stay_. He has no way of knowing whether the latter is also right, but for the first time since seeing Steve by that damned lake which haunts his worst nightmares, he hopes it might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm more than happy to engage with any comments/questions/discussion about Steve, Bucky, the world they're living in and so on. Just, FYI. :)  
> Have a great week, everyone!


	6. The Economics Of Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve catches Bucky up on the other timeline's historical events. One of their missions results in a terrifying discovery nobody can make sense of (yet). Both lead to Bucky questioning whether the world they're in was even worth saving, which in turn confronts Steve with certain insights about his motivations, past and present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been a bit slower with this one because there was a lot of reshuffling going on, so I apologize for the delay. You'll probably also notice it's somewhat shorter than previous updates, which might be due to my hectic schedule or the fact that I've learned to contain myself by now – it's anyone's guess, really. Needless to say, I love engaging with you all in the comments so keep those coming. <3
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter include cursing, some mild descriptions of bodily harm and vague allusions of experimentation on humans.

'9/11?' Bucky asks while filling their kettle with water.

'No,' Steve shouts from the hallway where he's trying to brush the dirty snow off his boots, the two _very_ buttery croissants almost dripping grease from the paper bag clutched in his hand.

'Kennedy?'

'Not like you'd remember.'

He drops the bakery loot on the coffee table, standing behind Bucky to check whether he's making the coffee the _proper way_. He isn't surprised to find he isn't.

'You're supposed to _boil_ the water first, then add the coffee.'

'Because that's worked so well for _you_.'

'It _will_ ,' Steve whines. 'One of these days.'

They've been at it for the last two days: the education of Bucky Barnes in Steve Rogers' peculiar history. Steve understands where the questions come from – most of the things the Winter Solider did in this timeline hadn't even happened in the other one, which gives Bucky hope. Steve had felt that hope as well, viscerally. So many good things had happened that Steve had felt positively evil, wishing for some of his intel related to the Winter Soldier to pan out; for one mission to give him a clue about his friend's whereabouts. It was not to be. Hydra's infiltration of SHIELD never happened, neither did Howard's death, neither had the Avengers. If anything, the universe Steve had come from had been _too_ quiet.

'Martin Luther King?' Bucky turns from the kettle, his breath warm on Steve's cheek.

'Different date and location, but unfortunately the same.'

Bucky's shoulders sag.

'Stonewall?' Steve hears the low whirr of his vibranium arm from where he's standing – too close. He figures it's probably confused about the instinctual reaction to make a fist and the later, conscious command not to do so. Steve feels his own fist clenching in turn.

'Same,' he says.

'Aliens in New York?'

'No aliens.'

'Thanos?'

'Nope.'

'Your spat with Tony?'

'There.. there was no Tony, not like you'd remember. There was no Iron Man.'

Steve allows himself a smile. Howard's son – the one he'd raised to be a good man – was not _unlike_ the Tony he'd known, but in many ways he'd been his complete opposite. Even so, he'd managed to find the Pepper of that universe, which had been enough to leave Steve's belief in fate unshaken.

'Best man at your wedding?'

'Jones. I know, _I know_ , _I'm sorry_.' Steve thinks he won't hear the end of this from Bucky, but he laughs and nods his head.

'Rest of the boys came?'

'Yeah. They were working with us for a long time after. When I say us, I mean Pegs and me.'

'Of course.'

'Gabe did mention you in his speech.'

'That must've been depressing. Good going Gabe, pal.'

'I thought it _was_ good. It would've been wrong, otherwise. Not to have you there.'

'At least it wasn't Stark giving the speech, I guess.'

Bucky goes for light, but Steve's gone on one of his time-travel strolls, face carefully blank apart from a shadow of a smile – a small, desperate quiver at the edge of his mouth you could destroy with a word. He remembers ghosting his fingers over the pleats in Peggy's white skirt – they'd seemed soft to his eyes, so the texture of the wool had surprised him: rough and sturdy. It fit her perfectly.

'Did you have any kids?'

It breaks Bucky's heart to ask the question, that much is obvious. Steve takes off his socks, dripping wet from the slush outside, and hangs them on the radiator. Though they've done their best to look at each other – sometimes, can't stop looking at each other now the dam has broken – Bucky does his previous trick of focusing on a bug on the window, Steve similarly in awe of the small cracks in the radiator paint.

'This will need repainting soon,' he sighs and shakes his head, as if willing himself to answer. 'No. We didn't.'

Steve knows Bucky can tell there's more to the story, but doesn't pry.

'What about you? The _other_ you?'

'I never found him either,' he replies, taking one of the coffee mugs from Bucky and settling on the couch, which he's found he likes much better than the lonely armchair lately. Bucky doesn't flinch as he sits in his usual spot, close to where Steve is, content with how the difficult conversation is going. He takes the blanket folded to his left and throws it over Steve's icy feet, though he knows they'll get warm with no help in no time. Some old habits take an eternity to die, Steve thinks, and even then, he suspects Bucky would still find a way to try to protect him, a last stand before the Rapture, a name said in the instant before the universe disappears.

'Don't you think that's odd? That you couldn't find either of us?'

Steve shrugs.

'Perhaps, but everything played out so much differently there. After a while I stopped counting on the intel from this reality.'

'Oh, what about Ultron?' Bucky near-yells, a kid at a carnival, despite sitting literally next to Steve.

'Howard was still alive back then. So, no.'

'You're shitting me.'

'I am not.'

'And you have no clue how any of this happened?'

It's not like Steve hadn't thought about it. He'd found it hard to think of anything _but_ for years. Peggy had helped him move on in that other timeline, but if he was being honest – he'd never gotten over the uncertainty. He gives Bucky the only answer he has.

'If I had to guess? Loki.'

'Loki? What would he want with you then? Or me?'

'Nothing with _us_. But he'd stolen the Tessaract during the battle of New York, well, the _other_ battle of New York. When I went back to return the Time stone to the Ancient One, she was mighty pissed at me when I told her what happened. So we spent some time trying to find him, to fix it. Only we never did.'

Bucky's at the edge of his seat now, if one could call hovering over Steve's blanketed feet the edge of the couch.

'And? What happened then? Don't hold out on me, Rogers.'

'When I went back to Vormir, Nat was gone.'

'What do you mean _gone_?'

'Her body wasn't there. I'd thought.. at least, I could take her home, bury her, you know? Do right by her. But her body wasn't there.'

'How would you even know where to look for it?'

'It's a giant cliff, Bucky,' Steve rolls his eyes. 'Besides, Schmidt, he said something like ' _ohh, finally, an enemy with a cooler head than the Red Skull has come for you_.'

'Cooler head? What does that even mean? Also, backtrack a bit, _Schmidt_?'

'It's a long story. At the time, I thought he'd meant someone more rational, or calculated. _Cooler head._ But I've come to think he might've just been literal. Loki's skin is blue, in his natural form - he's one of the Frost Giants.'

'Could he have taken the Soul stone?'

'Schmidt?'

' _Loki!_ '

'Not without a sacrifice. I'm not sure he was even after it, at that point. But he could've taken Nat's time-travel bracelet. It was on her, with one Pym particle left for the way home.'

Bucky stops his interrogation for a moment, likely mindful of the pain this must be dredging up for Steve. Steve is grateful for the reprieve, then he squeezes his friend's wrist and nods, prepared to continue.

'Where do you think he could've traveled? To change all that?'

Bucky's face is a portrait of curiosity, more than in any conversation they've had so far.

'I don't know,' Steve shrugs. 'I went to see the Ancient One once again, in the early sixties. The gist of it is, she told me not to meddle. Someone had come to see her before me, and they'd sorted it out. Whoever it was, they'd let her keep the Time Stone.'

'Why would Loki do that?'

'My best guess? He'd seen his future.'

'That doesn't explain what happened to you or me, pal. Where we vanished to.'

Steve doesn't want to lie to Bucky, but he's also wary of giving him false hope: he's experienced first hand the kind of havoc that can wreak. However, he also promised Bucky he would tell him everything he needs to choose for himself. It's up to Steve to provide him as much detail as he can, to make that choice an informed one. When Bucky had asked him about it the first time around, he hadn't been _completely_ honest.

'I don't know, Buck.. I mean, there was one other thing. But it's barely worth mentioning.'

'God, what are you, a fucking sieve? What _other_ thing?'

'When I came back, I told Peggy everything about our history. About you, me, where we were. Nothing about her, but I thought – if I'd already created a new timeline, it might as well be a better one. She'd kept the data secure. Worked around the clock to get Hydra out of SSR and SHIELD. It wasn't easy, but she did it, Pegs. Only, there'd been a break-in sometime after I'd given her the details. The compound had been compromised.'

'By whom?'

'Well, nobody knew for certain. By Loki, we thought.'

'Loki again? Jesus Steve, the poor guy's your go-to man for everything.'

'I didn't just make that up, thanks. The reason we'd thought as much was because whoever had gotten in.. had looked like me.'

' _What_? Do you think it might've been –'

'I don't know.'

'But how?'

'There was one other person who knew who I was, where I was... _when_ I was.'

' _Howard Stark_. I knew it.'

Bucky forgets himself and smashes the vibranium fist full-force into Steve's feet, resting as they are in his lap. He apologetically looks at Steve, who waves the pain away. The bruise will be gone by tomorrow. 

'He kept pestering me about the coordinates of where I was found. And I did try and help – I _truly_ did. I'd warned them about what might happen if we meddled with the timeline, but Howard wasn't having any of it. They never found the Tessaract, either. There'd been a big explosion in the Arctic, some sort of radiation wave, soon after the Valkyrie had crashed, before I came back, before I ever spoke to Howard. He stopped looking after a year or so.'

' _Jesus_. But if he'd found you, gotten you out? Why wouldn't the other you just come back, to Peggy?'

'I don't know,' Steve says for what must be the twentieth time in that conversation. He's beginning to feel like a broken record. 'A couple of years ago, when Pegs was at the hospital, I thought I'd seen something. A _glimpse_. But that – I think that was an old man's wishful thinking.'

'A glimpse of the other you?'

'Yes..' Steve lingers on the last sound, thoroughly unprepared to to finish the sentence.

'What else? Was it _Loki_ ,' Bucky jokes, oblivious to what Steve is about to say.

'No... at the time... I thought it was _you_.' 

' _Me_? But you said you never saw me again.'

He frowns, squeezes Steve's ankle under the blanket – unaware he's doing it, most likely.

'It was probably nothing, Buck – my mind playing tricks on me. I was already preparing to come back here, you were on my mind a lot, you know?'

' _Steve_. What do you think you saw?'

'Myself, only younger. Not as young as I'd been when I got out of the ice here, but young _er_. And you, on my six. Leaving the hospital.'

' _Fuck_. Did you ask your lady about it?'

'I did. She said the same thing she had in this timeline, only in a different context.'

'What did she say? God, if you're not the _worst_ storyteller ever to walk this Earth. Or _any_ Earth.'

'She said that we can only move forward in time, not back. That sometimes we need to start again. But then she started quoting TS Eliot, and honestly by that point, Pegs was really all but gone –'

'Steve! What did she _say_?'

Steve relinquishes the last piece of information he'd kept to himself. It irrationally hurts to let it go, given how jealously he'd been holding on to it: the hope of it, the promise of its undisputed veracity. In the privacy of his mind, he'd kept it in a hidden chamber that was never opened, after that day, so it's no wonder the words come out dusty now, like a choked cough.

'She said, _the end is where_ you _start from_.'

Bucky's eyes are all but bulging out of their sockets and Steve can almost hear the clockwork mechanism of his mind moving, like he remembers from old Disney cartoons. He knows Bucky well enough to suspect he's coming to much the same cockamamie idea that had crossed his own mind. This is exactly why he hadn't wanted to tell Bucky anything about it – because it was a one in a million chance that Bucky would find a hundred different explanations for now, to absolve Steve of his guilt; of his failure. Old habits, indeed.

*

Wanda's enhanced interrogation techniques with the grunts they've apprehended lands them in a Saved Souls cell near Pittsburgh, PA. At first, Steve is sure this will be another bust – most of the facilities they've visited thus far have been either abandoned by the time they got there, or false leads entirely. When he sees the derelict oil refinery chimneys piercing the dawning grey sky, a familiar sense of foreboding bubbles in his guts – he doesn't even have to catch a glimpse of the heavily armed guard to know that this time they've hit the mark.

It all happens suddenly. Steve motions with his hand for their back-up to hold their positions while Bucky inspects the perimeter. Wanda is blending in with the shadows from the piping, he can barely make her out, knowing she's there. So when there's a yell from somewhere to his right followed instantly by gun shots, he knows without a doubt it was him the guards have noticed. Judging from the direction of the gunfire, his shooter is hidden between the railing on the platforms overhead. Steve tries to get a better look, perching atop one of the pipes in the front yard, when a bullet come seemingly out of nowhere grazes his left ear. Almost immediately, there's a soft thud some feet away as a body falls to the ground. Not only one guard above, Steve concludes, and turns around to see Bucky furiously pointing to another spot and signaling for Steve to stay back. The hot liquid dripping thickly down his cheek makes Steve less willing to argue about rank; he nods and lets Bucky take the lead. This seems to be the right decision, because they're inside in no time. Steve punches through a dozen men in the small room – this, at least, he remembers how to do – while Bucky makes short work of securing the rest of the level. Their agents swoop in and comb the computers, files and anything they can find to bring back to Bruce.

'Where's Wanda,' Steve asks as Bucky strides towards him, ignoring the question and taking Steve's head in his hands, turning it left and right to assess the damage. 'I'm fine,' Steve tries to pry his hands away, to no avail.

'The fuck was that,' Bucky ignores him. 'You still half-blind, buddy?'

'Gotta give you somethin' to do.'

Bucky frowns. Just as he's about to say something, their comms crackle with Wanda's quiet voice.

'Downstairs,' she whispers. 'North elevator.'

The fact she's being so quiet unnerves Steve, though she doesn't sound like she's in trouble per se. He pats Bucky on the back and motions to the narrow hall going North, where he supposes the elevator is located. It takes them a couple of minutes to find Wanda, reclining against a damp brown wall in a corridor that seems to stretch as far as the eye can see, lit by naked bulbs most of which have gone out. The right side is lined with doors, mostly uniform in size apart from what seems to be an entrance to a larger room that Steve figures used to be the engineering control hub.

'There's people inside,' she shudders.

'Prisoners?' Steve looks dubiously at the stretch of doors. He can count at least ten from where he's standing, no telling how deep it goes.

'Their thoughts are.. scrambled. I can't make them out.'

Bucky has stayed silent throughout the exchange, now he walks over to the nearest smaller door and rips it out of its hinges with the metal hand.

'Why don't we just ask nicely,' he grits his teeth. Steve can understand the apprehension about mind games, coming from him.

The inside of the room is somehow worse than the damp and muddy corridor. There's a small metal bedframe with the most uncomfortable-looking mattress on top, an military wool blanket and a small neon light in the middle of the low ceiling. A woman – thin, late thirties if Steve had to guess – is crouching on the dirt floor, in the corner. Her jeans are muddy and torn on the knees, as if she'd been kneeling – or crawling.

'We're here to help,' Steve says, careful not to startle her with his approach (now that Bucky has announced it by ripping the door away). 'Can you tell me your name?'

She looks up, visibly confused, as if she can't be certain what she's seeing is real.

'My name is Steve,' Steve continues. 'How did you get here?'

She shakes her head, mumbling unintelligibly to herself, scratching the inside of her palm with dirty fingernails.

'Hey, _hey_ ,' Steve crouches next to her and tries to take her hand. He can feel the tension of Bucky's body behind him, an animal poised for attack at a millisecond's notice.

It happens in less than that. She hisses and jumps on Steve, going for his eyes. He manages to grab her hands before they reach his face, but loses his balance and is pushed onto the ground, straddled by the woman, who is surprisingly strong given her frame. Bucky and Wanda take one arm each, trying their best not to hurt her as they drag her away from Steve.

'What are you,' she repeats in-between shrieks and wailing. 'Let me go, let me go. Help. _Help._ '

Bucky calls some of their back up to take her away and deal with the rest of the people in the basement. There are thirty-seven of them, in total, all in a similar state of delirium.

'What's going on here,' Wanda asks darkly, though the rough strokes of what they've found are clear enough to all three of them.

'Let's get out,' Steve replies softly, a hand on her shoulder. He hasn't forgotten about Wanda and Pietro's past; how seeing this must affect her.

'I'm alright,' she answers the question that hasn't left his lips. 'I just want to get these bastards.'

'No arguments from me,' Bucky's fist clenches as he says it, making the point more viscerally than words ever could.

The grey morning air is a welcome change when they finally step outside. Back in the light, Bucky stares at Steve for minutes on end between ordering teams to the pick up point and making sure they've gathered all the intel they came for. Steve remembers his injury from less than an hour ago and tries to disperse his friend's worry with a tight smile.

'Right as rain,' he says. Bucky shakes his head.

'Stupid,' is the only word Steve can get out of him until they're back at the facility.

*

In the two weeks after finding the Pittsburgh cell, they hit four other places, two of which are not a waste of time. They don't find any additional information as such, but they do free seventy eight people – though if 'free' is the right word remains unknown. Most of the prisoners are as unresponsive as those from the oil refinery. Bruce is working on analyzing the substances they were apparently shot up with - Ketamine, he says, and a cocktail of this-and-that he's yet to fully reverse-engineer. At least the prisoners they'd found first are slowly getting better – if nothing, they've become less prone to violent outbursts like the woman who'd tried to gouge Steve's eyes out.

'It looks like they're collecting people hit with the Capgras syndrome, or some form of it,' Bruce muses. When he suggests Wanda try to poke around in their minds some more now they've apparently calmed down, she gives him a glacial stare and counters. 'I think they've had enough people doing that by now, don't you think?' Bucky loves her for it.

The whole situation gives him the chills that go straight to the core of his spine, but he pushes the discomfort deep down, worried Steve or Sharon will notice he isn't quite alright with being as close to human experimentation and bench him. He can't afford to be benched, though, because it's obvious Steve needs him. In the three attacks, he's gotten himself shot _twice_. And while the wounds were no more than scrapes for Captain America, it disturbs Bucky to think his friend has been so careless. Is it hubris, he wonders, or has Steve always been as reckless?

Worry for his friend, as well as thoughts of what Steve's told him about that other timeline keep him up most nights. Ever since their conversation about what Steve had seen – or thinks he might've seen – Bucky's been playing out different scenarios, trying to get to the outcome of Steve and him, together, visiting an old Peggy decades after Zola and the Valkyrie crash. There are way too many unknowns to be able to even approximate a chain of events that would've gotten them there, but that doesn't mean he can't try. After all, there are also very familiar factors in the equation: a younger Steve and himself, and if he knows anything about those two – _well_. He tries not to veer into wishful thinking when constructing these histories in the air, but it's difficult not to, with how his own reality has panned out. Steve had been right, he was always the one more able to imagine good things.

Bucky wakes up late again today, finally back home – and yes, he has now begun to think of their grey little CIA-safehouse-turned-Airbnb in Budapest as something resembling the concept. Steve is lounging on the sofa reading the news, as he always does these days, a dark look on his face, also expected. There's a mug of lukewarm tea on the counter waiting for Bucky, he skips it in favor of some cereal with cold milk and sits in Steve's armchair which has been all but completely abandoned lately.

'Anything good,' he asks sarcastically. Steve gives him a look, meaning _as if_.

'Two more murders. One in France, another in New Jersey.' Bucky scrunches his face in comical distaste. 'Yeah, yeah,' Steve rolls his eyes. 'Bellock is grinding the dead meat of Jones in the polls.'

'Unsurprising,' Bucky shrugs. The guy really does have all the charisma of a squid.

'The conspiracy theorists are also having a field day with the new WHO briefing. Twitter is saying we're trying to gaslight the world.'

'We as in Pepper and the Avengers?' Steve nods.

'Lovely.'

'Meanwhile, back home, the ECU is voting on a Repatriation Bill to remove the _Unclaimed_.'

Bucky huffs. How many more labels will they think of for the poor folks, he wonders incredulously. The fact that this government is doing their best to wash their hands of them – well, this isn't quite as new. He'd been noticing posters around the city that seemed to be trying to turn the 'regular' citizens against the Returned for a while now: they'll take their jobs, they'll steal back the real-estate you've gained after the Snap and worked hard to maintain while they were gone: all the classics. The posters are officially _not_ made by the ECU government, which is trying to maintain an appearance of neutrality – for whose benefit, he has no clue – but the rhetoric is much too similar for it to be a coincidence. And with Bellock and her ilk gaining popularity, it's only a matter of time before a similar discourse becomes mainstream in the USA, if it already hasn't.

It's peculiar for Bucky to consider the States as 'somewhere else'; with quite so much detachment. The fact that it sounds right in his head _feels_ wrong. To be fair, he hasn't lived there in decades, but the nostalgia and excitement which came from regaining those first memories of his childhood, of him and Steve, had always made him think it was a matter of time before he returned to that other life. At least now he knows, with growing certainty, there is no other life to return to. All in all, he considers his resignation a good thing. When he thinks about _better_ now, he thinks not of that life _before_ but the one _parallel_ to his own – of Steve's reality, where the both of them get saved; where they're free to spend their lives together.

 _How ridiculously romantic_ , he mentally admonishes himself. _As if_.

'What is it?' Steve has probably been looking at him for a while, judging by the milk of his cereal bowl that's gone from cold to room temperature in the meantime.

'Nothing,' Bucky waves the question away, not ready to have that conversation with Steve just yet. ( _As if he ever will be_.)

'Buck, if these missions are disturbing to you – if you wanna work this another way, I won't –'

'They're not disturbing to _you_?' Bucky snorts.

'Of course they are, but you know what I mean –'

'Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know what you mean. I'm fine, pal.'

'Buck..' Steve extends his hand to squeeze Bucky's knee, which he promptly shoves under himself to avoid contact. He has to give Steve _something_ , but he's got that annoyingly determined set to his jaw that makes it clear he's not letting this go without a fight.

'Look, it's really nothing. Or.. a _little something_. I just find myself wondering if this world was worth saving, is all.'

What he'd considered would be a good _honest_ distraction from that other conversation in his head turns out to be anything but, when Steve's entire face melts into a mask of pure tragedy.

'You _can't_ think that.'

Unknowingly, Steve scoots over on the couch to get as close as he can to Bucky, his hand firmly gripping Bucky's metal arm. It's funny enough to be comforting.

'I don't, _usually_. But with everything that's going on... No 9/11, no aliens in New York, no Thanos, no Saved Souls, no creepy illnesses, no fucked-up government policies? Makes you wonder, maybe that's why the shit happened here. So there'd be a timeline where people are happy, where they can breathe.'

Bucky tries to disguise the bitterness as sarcasm, but it doesn't work on Steve, who is shaking his head almost from the beginning.

' _Bucky_ ,' he says. 'I've lived in that world. It wasn't all milk and honey, believe me.'

'Still sounds a damn sight better than here.'

Steve's grip on his arm turns deadly. Bucky's grateful it's the metal one he's gotten a hold of.

'I don't know how the future's gonna go, Buck. I can't say anything about that. But even if it turns out like you say, that this world _wasn't_ worth saving... _you_ were. That's good enough for me.'

It's an odd thing to say, Bucky thinks, but it sends all sort of chills down his spine – only this time, they're pleasant. He looks into Steve's eyes, fondly, as if he's just invented the Moon.

'But why?'

'Because you're _you_ ,' Steve says matter-of-factly. 'Because I'm _me_.' Bucky smiles, certain there's some shade around his cheeks he'd never admit to knowing about.

*

It's not that Steve hadn't noticed the way Bucky's face had gotten darker after each mission, each underground bunker of people whose minds had been meddled with, much like his own. He was still taken aback by the raw admission of his best friend's outlook on the future. Or is it the past he'd be more keen to swap? Even with all the horrible-and-much-worse things that have happened to them in this timeline, Steve had never thought of it as worse than the one he'd spent the other part of his life in.

After their conversation, the oddity of this becomes apparent to him. That the thought hadn't, not once, crossed his mind. He knows deep down why that is; the recognition at once startling and thoroughly predictable; a memento from youth one finds in the back of a dusty drawer. Being with Bucky in the here and now, where worse things still keep happening, a piece of him has clicked into place – a piece he'd subconsciously been aware was missing. Nothing could ever be perfect without it.

Steve thinks about distances: inches on a map, seats on a train, hands on a clock. Clasped hands, roads, the minimal proximity between two pairs of lips before a kiss is inevitable. He's been thinking about cities, mapping the rivers that connect them, microscopic synapses in the geography of his brain. He's erected houses made of memory in the empty lots – birds’ shelters to last through wintertime. A village for each reflection of himself that will fade come another season. A river flowing into each home so that he can, when he needs to, find the way back on his own.

Sprawled on the grey sofa of their grey living room in the late evening, the distant sound of the low-pressure shower coming from the bathroom where he is keenly aware of Bucky's presence under the running water, he can't think of a reason to move – neither backwards nor forwards.

 _What we built could’ve been anything_ , Steve thinks, _so why did we choose this_? Losing and finding each other, time after time. Time after time, dooming the world on the hope, always, on the frail hope that they would be enough? That saving the other meant saving the world, and if it didn't – _well_. The world be damned. What does it say about him, Steve wonders, about the two of them – that reckless devotion has always been the defining characteristic of their relationship?

Perhaps there was little choice afforded them to begin with, like he'd told his friend – because of the person he is or the person he'd been when he met Bucky; in equal measure as the person Bucky had been – needed to be – when he met Steve. Because of long strolls by the river and short walks from one bar to the next, because of the time they spent together, and the time they spent apart. In the economics of loss which permeated the years they've shared, Steve is lucky to say that his was truly minimal. Everything he'd lost had come back to him, one way or another.

Knowing you are lucky and feeling so, however, do not always perfectly align. It had been different with Peggy – and why he needs to compare the two? That's an issue for another time. Steve is transported to the early sixties, into the middle of one out of a hundred mirrored arguments spanning his marriage with Peggy, about what had always been the same problem.

'I'm just saying,' he'd tried to explain, 'if we go _before_ I think they'll be there, perhaps this time we can catch them. Maybe we can..'

'As sorry as I am that we haven't been able to find him, I'm not going to risk a dozen good men on a hunch. This isn't how we do things.'

'How _do_ you do things, then? Not efficiently, that's obvious.'

Peggy had looked at him with a pained expression.

'It was never going to be perfect,' she'd said, calmly. 'If that's what you came here thinking, you shouldn't have bothered, you could've just as well stayed –' she'd cut herself off, shaking the rest of the sentence away. Her features softened then, the perfectly manicured yet gun-calloused hand finding his on the dining table. 'But just because it isn't perfect, it doesn't mean it wasn't worth it.'

'Do you really believe that,' he'd asked – more of himself than of her.

 _'Yes_ , Steven. _I do_. The question is, do _you_?'

Steve had ignored her then, too wrapped up in the anger about his thwarted plan to be kind, but given a do-over, of course he would say yes. Yes, you're right. Yes, even when things are not perfect, they can be _good_. He smacks himself over the head, like he imagines Pegs would if she were here now.

 _Just because it isn't perfect, it doesn't mean it wasn't worth it._ Can the past tell us anything about our future? Does knowing the past lead to that future? _The end is where you start from_. The words seem almost prescient now, and Steve allows himself to wonder if Peggy had known something he didn't; if Bucky is on to something, if a reality can exist where everyone gets saved and happy endings are a norm instead of an anomaly. Real ones, not the in-between calms bracketing progressively larger storms. True ones, those that stick.

He remembers what Éva told him months ago: that nothing stays in its fixed spot, least of all humans, even when it is likeliest because where they are is good. Perfect, even. We go on, and on, and on, and on. Even when it hurts beyond comprehension, we stay alive. Why we choose to do so finally becomes clear to Steve. What makes the world worth saving, Steve thinks, is the same reason we save ourselves – and the fact that it's the simplest too, makes it all the more believable. Éva has also told him about Occam's razor.

We don't do it out of fear for ourselves, or to spite our enemies. Not for promises of future glory and money; not because of unfinished business we might leave behind; nor obstinance, nor laziness. Not even for God or religion. That fragile youth of seventeen whose bed had been a death-bed more often than not – he'd never given any of these much thought. He'd stayed alive, much like Steve now believes everyone does, out of _love_.

The ringtone snaps him out of his train of thought. He quickly picks up, too dazed to check caller ID.

'Hey, Goldie,' a croaky voice whispers from the other end. Steve's chest expands more than superhumanly possible, in relief and delight.

'Sam...' He finds it difficult to find the words to describe the happiness he feels, let alone speak them.

'I know, I suck for stranding you with my job, eh?'

'It's been an honor. How're you feeling?'

'Less comatose than usual,' he jokes. 'My old lady would've killed me herself, _again_ , if I'd died.'

And isn't it just the final proof for Steve's theory, delivered in that nonchalant way only Sam could manage.

'Do give my regards to Mrs. Wilson,' he says quickly, almost as afraid of Sam's mother as her son is.

'She informed me you've been in and out constantly. I'd say I hope you didn't get any of your stupid ideas and blamed yourself for what happened, but then I've heard enough of Barnes' stories to know that's impossible.'

'Maybe,' Steve chuckles, a tear running down his face. 'I've missed you, bud. _We've_ missed you. We'll be there to see you ASAP.'

'Take your time, 's good. I've got the whole Wilson welcome committee to deal with here at the moment.'

'Sure thing. But _soon_ , alright?'

'Pleasure's all mine.'

'Take it easy, Sam.'

'Can't take it any other way now, Goldie. Say hello to my partner. Or your partner, now. For _life_.'

'Yeah, yeah,' Steve blushes, thankful Sam didn't holo him to witness it first hand.

He's made plenty of jokes about their 'star-crossed superhero buddy tragedy' by now that Steve really should've gotten used to it, but coming on the tail of what he's been thinking about, it rings differently. Sam says another goodbye against a backdrop of what is unmistakably Mrs. Wilson's voice ordering the nurses around and a series of giggles probably coming from Sam's teen nieces. Even over the phone, they sound like a family.

When the call ends, Steve checks the time to see it's a little past eleven. He's even missed hearing the trusty bells in the commotion. The water in the bathroom has been off for a while, but Bucky hasn't come into the room for a late-night snack yet – meaning he's probably turned in for today. Steve stands up from the sofa and makes his way to Bucky's room. He enters on tiptoes, well-aware his friend will hear him anyway.

'What's happened,' Bucky asks from the bed, alarmed.

'Nothing,' Steve whispers. 'Nothing _bad_. Sam's awake.'

Steve relives his own joy at the news by looking at Bucky's face light up in understanding.

'He sends his regards,' Steve smiles. 'I'm sure he'll call, but Mrs. Wilson's got him plenty occupied at the moment.'

Bucky's obviously met Sam's mother, because he laughs and nods apprehensively. Once they're done gazing at each other with ridiculously large grins, Steve leaves the room wishing Buck a good night.

He's two steps away from the door when he stops, overwhelmed by the urge to go back inside. He decides to indulge this urge, which is pure insanity, before he can think of the implications. Bucky raises his head from the pillow when he sees Steve.

'Forgot something?'

 _Oh no_ , Steve thinks, _not a single thing_.

'I just.. can I stay with you for a bit?'

To say Bucky looks stunned is selling it short. For a long moment, his eyes dart across Steve and then between him and the open door, Steve's hand clutching the doorknob and audibly crushing it in the process. Steve thinks he'll tell him what the Hell and no, but Bucky scoots a bit further to the side and lifts the duvet for Steve to sneak into the bed. That might not have been Steve's first thought when he'd asked the question, only he realizes now – it's what he'd silently wished for. He turns off the lights and tries his best to close the now defunct door before climbing into the space Bucky's made for him.

They both lie straight on their backs as if coffined at first, staring at the dark ceiling, careful not to touch one another. After what seems like an hour, Bucky relaxes and turns on his side, facing Steve, who also relaxes, but doesn't move an inch.

'I've missed you for so long,' Steve says into the dark. 'I can't even remember _how_ long it's been, it feels like I've missed you for an eternity.'

Bucky stays silent, but shoves an inch more of the comforter across Steve's chest and up to his neck, to let him know he's been heard. The smell registers with Steve immediately: it's the cheeky, cologne scent he remembers being exclusively Bucky, mixed in with something more metallic, like blood. Had Bucky ever even had money for cologne? Or had that always been _him_ , Steve wonders. Bucky's arm lingers across Steve once he's finished tucking him in. It's barely a moment's hesitation, but Steve can't help seizing the opportunity and taking the hand on his chest in his own. For a second. To test a theory, or so he tells himself.

 _What are you doing, Steven Grant Rogers_? He tries to shove the anxiety boiling over the tightly shut containers in his brain filled with Bucky back down, but it's of little use. His body is pushed down by their two clasped hands deep into the mattress, then even further, until he can imagine them dropping into the core of the earth, incinerated while keeping their form, like that couple from Pompeii he'd once seen in Éva's history books. Didn't he read somewhere it was actually two men? He shrugs internally, _as if it matters_.

He thinks again about the distance between two clasped hands, two pairs of lips before a kiss is inevitable. The fact that it's Bucky's lips that are now in the equation is terrifying and not at all unnatural.

'Stop thinking, Steve, you're making _my_ brain hurt,' Bucky protests, not without affection. 'Just _sleep_.'

'Sorry,' Steve mutters awkwardly.

He lets go of his hold on Bucky's hand, but keeps his palm over it just the same. If Bucky wants to, he can pull it back easily and that will be that, he thinks. No harm's been done: it's not like they haven't held hands before, even if the last time happened almost a century ago. When Bucky shuffles around to make himself more comfortable, the pang Steve feels at the thought of losing the small physical intimacy is all too real not to be acknowledged. Though it takes a lot of effort to coordinate his body with the one hand resting on Steve, Bucky doesn't remove it and finally settles down.

 _That's good enough for now_ , Steve thinks, running his thumb across Bucky's fingers distractedly. They fall asleep in record time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you got confused in the text about this Steve's timeline, it's because Steve himself is confused. :D 
> 
> Edit: I'd initially put up a file here explaining the timeline, but the link decided to die on me. I'll upload it at the end of the fic when I've figured out how to do it without using my g-drive, with some slight alterations.


	7. About Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes! Steve deals with his insights from the previous chapter in a very typical Steve fashion. Bucky is confused. Éva is not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I floated an idea of the possibility that I was getting better at editing – this chapter disproves the hypothesis completely. At least now we know. Secondly, I really wanted to give Steve and Bucky some time together to be carefree, but Steve kept slipping away from me and the wonderful things I'd had in store for him, into darkness. Since that's an integral part of the story too, I let him go where he wanted. 
> 
> So while this is a much more difficult read than I'd first intended, I do hope you enjoy the hints of happiness and some-good-things to kick off this Monday! 
> 
> I shamelessly stole the chapter title from [The National.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ipx8qWt2fVA)
> 
> Content warnings are in the end notes: in case you have content you'd prefer not to engage with, please check those. I don't want to spoil certain story beats from the get-go, but I also urge you to take care.

**Opinion / The New York Times**

**How The Blip Could Challenge Outdated Concepts of Family**

The return of the people vanished in the Snap of 2018 has burdened the global economy, leading to resource shortages, legal issues where citizenships and private property rights are concerned, and outbreaks of mental health problems in both those who lost five years of their lives as well as those who'd endured the tragic loss of half the world's population, trying to rebuild a semblance of a future which has now again shifted course.

On the flipside, the immense joy and hope the return of loved ones has brought around the world is a factor that is often left by the wayside, but needs mentioning. After what now seems like a life in the twilight zone, or a badly written (and boring!) dystopia, families have been reunited, heroes rose to the job and everyone joined together by the sheer, incredible surge of optimism that followed. While short-lived (if we count the beginning of the ECU retrieval of its citizens for to assembly points and the first attack by the Saved Souls terrorist group – it was a mere two weeks before things started going South), the positive effects of the Avengers' actions cannot be overstated.

A myriad of academic papers, think-pieces and op-eds have been written about the above. They are important – crucial – problems we have to face today and in the years to come. However, a rarely mentioned change in the way we think about the structure of our lives has also emerged, and its lack of prominence is what drove me to writing this piece.

If someone had asked me ten years ago whether I could see my lifestyle being touted as a plausible alternative to the entrenched monopoly of the nuclear family, I would've told them they were nuts to suggest so. Polyamorous relationships had been stigmatized and brushed away as 'weird' (and those people were being polite!). Yet here I am, today, eating my hypothetical words from a decade ago. Countries all over have found themselves, much like their citizens, in a similar predicament: how to deal with the steep number of bigamists knocking on their doors and asking about the legal ramifications of divorce (who with?!) and its alternatives. A rising majority has already persuaded the governments of Scandinavian countries to allow for the provision of staying married with both their former – once vanished – partners and those they've entered into marriages and civil unions with in the last five years. Other places seem like they'll be quick to follow: New Zealand is already drafting legislation to the same effect, same as France, United Korea, Japan and Wakanda.

It's not only married folks who are reconsidering their traditional notions of family, however: relationships are becoming more open than ever as we navigate the new terrain we've been transported to (some of us literally).

Having been poly since before the Snap, it brings me incredible joy to see my relationships gain mainstream acknowledgment, though I am also wary of making any victory laps just yet. While this could be a next step in the cultural evolution of how we relate to each other and how we perceive family, it could also lead to an increase in domestic violence (whether it be physical or emotional), gaslighting, dissatisfaction and consequently, an unwelcome regression towards even more stringent traditional norms than the ones we were fighting before the Snap.

This is all to say: social scientists and policy makers, take heed! We deserve the long awaited R' n R: research and reform. There are more pressing matters, some of you will say - to which I would reply: aren't there always? Wouldn't it be better if, for once, we resolved an issue _before_ it became pressing, and thousands - potentially hundreds of thousands - of people get hurt because of inaction? This problem is begging for permanent solutions _now_. 

**By: Jamila Kovac**

**Feb. 29 2024**

*

Steve scrolls through the NYT article on his phone, propped up against a wall of pillows in Bucky's bed – which is at once the strangest thing that's happened to him in decades, and as easy as breathing. When he gets to the end of the page, his attention is averted from the content of the text to the date beneath it. He checks his calendar and, sure enough, it's February 29th. His chest tightens; memories of the date coming back one by one, as if neatly stacked on a conveyor belt in his mind.

Peggy had always been a rational person: it was one of her qualities Steve had always admired the most, falling short in the domain himself. That's also what made the quirks she did have all the more endearing. His favorite was certainly the fondness she'd had for leap years, and days arbitrarily marked on calendars as _February 29th_. She used to call them the extra days; or the bonus life. Whatever else was going on, Peggy claimed, you should ignore it on that one day every four years and let yourself go. Do what you otherwise wouldn't be brave, or foolish enough, to attempt. Sequester yourself in a room and ponder tough existential questions; climb the nearest, tallest peak to look over the city for hours on end; sip mulled wine in a seedy bar with friends; sing along to your favorite record; dance. Do it all mischievously content in the knowledge you have _stolen_ that time. You could even die, and next year it would seem not to have happened at all.

‘Nothing is forbidden today,’ Peggy had told him the first morning they woke up as a couple on a February 29th. ‘Tell me what you want to do, darling.’

That year, they mostly stayed in the house and did chores, of all things. Steve had decided normalcy was something he wanted to test above anything else: it was still the early days then, 1948, he’d only been back a month or so. In the afternoon, they danced in the small, sparsely furnished living room of Peggy’s house and as the setting sun coming through the windows outlined their silhouettes in orange and pink light across the light wooden floor, Steve had regretted not taking her on an adventure, not giving her something more exciting to look forward to in the next four years. That was before she’d laid her head on his chest and her dark, deep perfume had reached his nostrils, just in time to hear her whisper: ‘This is perfect, Steve.’

When they talked about the tradition years later, Steve asked how she chose what to do on those rare occasions. Peggy had said the important lesson of leap years was not to do something extraordinary: they weren't supposed to be a singular event. What Steve had failed to grasp was that February 29th should be a blueprint of what you do the next four years: it should provide you with a glimpse of what life would be like if lived in your own way entirely, and give you the courage to make it so before another cycle comes rolling by. By then, you would hopefully have other ideas to test, and so on. Life always circles back, she’d warned, not to the same place, but to the same need for novelty. Death and rebirth. Hypothesis testing. A science, an art: both at the same time.

‘It’s like reading a _really_ good book in which the main character dies in the end,’ she’d mused. ‘It’s over, but you’re happy you’ve stuck with it, and it was damned well worth a read.’ She’d paused to take a sip of a fragrant red wine, one of the small luxuries they usually went without, except on special occasions. ‘It sums up my feelings about death, too. You live the best you can, and when your time comes, of course – you’re sorry – but you’re also satisfied that you’ve had a life worth writing a story about. That’s the only thing I ask myself when I decide whether I should do something or not, on the 29th. Would I want to read about it?’

With a pang of guilt, Steve realizes he’d missed the tradition last time – in 2016. It had been so close to Pegs’ death and he’d been preparing his journey back to this timeline with Howard: time had seemed of so little consequence that he hadn’t even kept track of the dates. What did _days_ matter, he’d thought, with decades and entire realities at stake? At the moment, though, he finds it hard to think of something _more_ important than single days, hours, and minutes. The moments you remember; those you use as the building blocks for the narrative that is your life.

He looks over to where Bucky is still sleeping on the blue pillow, his now slightly longer hair sticking out in all directions, forming something akin to a crown of thorns around his head. Steve lets himself brush away a lock resting on his eyelid before he pokes his shoulder. Bucky shudders in his sleep, pushing Steve’s hand away – it’s very casual for a second before he jumps up, completely awake and wild-eyed.

‘Hey, _hey_ – it’s me,’ Steve raises his hands between them to allow Bucky some time to adjust to having a person in his bed. ‘I fell asleep yesterday, sorry.’

‘Is fine,’ Bucky smiles, ‘I’m just a bit jumpy, you know. Assassin reflexes.’

‘I’ve been sitting here reading for at least half an hour, pal,’ Steve laughs. ‘I’d say those reflexes need a tune-up.’

Bucky frowns, though he seemingly agrees with Steve’s assessment, inspecting the rest of the room quickly to ascertain if he’s missed anything else while sleeping.

‘I have an idea, for today,’ Steve says. ‘If you’re up for it.’

Bucky looks at him suspiciously, even more than a moment ago, when he’d woken up to Steve unexpectedly sitting in his bed.

‘What kind of an idea?’

*

Bucky has a premonition Steve's plan will end in blood and tears, but he agrees to go along with it, though the idea originates from Peggy. He doesn't have anything against Agent Carter herself – he'd always thought she was an amazing woman, and the perfect foil for his best friend – but coming to grips with his feelings for said best friend, he can't help but think of her as competition. Which is insane. If for no other reason, because the woman he'd known is long gone – and so is her doppelganger from that other timeline, who'd spent her life with Steve. There was really no competition to be had, Bucky thinks bitterly: she'd already won. If he had to predict the future, her mere ghost would also win pitted against him. That's just who Steve is, he tells himself, loyal to a fault.

However blasphemous it is to participate in this martial tradition of hers and Steve's, Bucky is also well-aware he would welcome a day of rest, or of adventure that is unrelated to possible fatal outcomes for himself or for Steve. A day out of time, for two men out of time. They settle on dividing the time in halves, so each can get a taste of the magic. Bucky lets Steve go first, his reign ending at 4 PM so Bucky can have the time to think about what he'd like to do. He doesn't need to, not really – just being with Steve, without pregnant pauses or barbed-wire sentences tightening around them sounds just fine. They settle on some ground rules, like no talking about politics and 'no inhibitions', whatever that means for Steve. Bucky decides not to obey that rule as soon as it leaves Steve's mouth, judging that removing _his_ inhibitions would fling them head-first into disaster.

'What are we doing first,' Bucky asks as he puts his winter jacket on, Steve buttoning the very flattering black coat Pepper had sent with a huge order of clothes after the whole de-aging thing.

'Well, what we're _not_ doing is looking at the news. That's prohibited.'

'So I've gathered.'

'Good. I thought we'd take a short walk and buy some croissants, along with those horrid donuts you like, with the turquoise glaze. And we bring them over to Éva's as a surprise, have some breakfast? Then we take it from there.'

'How is this different than any other day,' Bucky asks though he likes the plan.

'It doesn't have to be _different_ , it just has to be something you like, something you want to keep doing. _I_ like having breakfast with both you and Éva, and I know _you_ like the donuts, so it makes me happy for us all to have what we like on this day.'

'Sure thing,' Bucky sighs. 'It _is_ confusing, you realize? I thought it was about testing theories.'

'It is! But those theories don't have to be spectacular or outlandish. Like, you don't have to try a spa day to know you probably won't like it.'

'There goes my plan down the drain,' Bucky smirks, the beginnings of just such a plan beginning to form. Steve looks at him with narrowed eyes and shakes his head.

'I just dug my own grave, haven't I?'

Bucky makes a motion to show his lips are sealed.

They walk to the small donut shop which is three blocks over, not encountering a single soul on the way. It's 8 AM and Bucky has the distinct impression they should: tourists, people going to work, people returning home from late-night parties in the 7th district. The knowledge feels instinctual, automatic – like when he'd seen New (old) Steve for the first time. 'This is all wrong,' it screams.

'Feels like a ghost city,' he says to Steve, doubtful he'll be understood.

'It does,' Steve agrees at once. 'I've never been here in _this_ world, but I was in the other one, in the late 2000's. You wouldn't believe it – there were clubs up and down our street, in the old buildings they're demolishing now. It was the same here from what I've gathered, before the ECU became a thing.'

'You read up on the history?'

'Of course. It's only right since we're living in the city.'

'I also think I was here, or The Winter Soldier was. I keep running into things that should feel familiar, and they do – but there's something off with them.'

Bucky appreciates the restraint it takes for Steve not to ask him if it's akin to what he feels about him – given they've decided only _good_ things can be talked about today. He distracts himself by smelling the air: there's a distinct flavor of cinnamon in it, mixed with burnt sugar, cocoa powder, wet leaves and a hint of rusting iron coming from inside the concrete building fronts. It smells _old_ , just like Bucky remembers.

Steve picks out ten donuts from the small shop in which the two of them can barely squeeze into. Bucky is sure that's enough to kill all three of them, young and super-metabolism-endowed or not. He doesn't protest, however, because Steve looks so carefree picking out the most outlandish combinations of flavors, as well as some staples, that the mere sight of him knocks the air out from his lungs. He dutifully takes one of the bags to carry, swinging it happily as he walks, like he used to as a child when his Ma would send him to pick up meat from the butcher on the rare Sundays a roast was a possibility.

They knock on Éva's door a little after half past eight, early enough that she's still in her nightgown – which, Bucky is amused to find, is not at all dissimilar in its intricacy to her regular dresses.

'We've brought breakfast,' he cheerfully announces, holding up the paper bag. Éva sighs and moves to the side.

'Come in, come in.'

'We're having _a day_.' Bucky warns her. 'Steve's idea. We're doing everything and anything we want to do, testing theories.'

'I see,' she smiles. 'Which theory are we testing now,' she asks as she unpacks the breakfast. 'Whether you can kill me without anyone finding out?'

'Something like that,' Steve laughs. Noticing his good spirits, Éva eases on the sarcasm and ushers them into the living room, clearing the table of papers and random knick-knacks.

Steve recovers a platter from the showcase cupboard on the far end of the room.

'I've always wanted to try this one,' he tells Bucky conspiratorially as he arranges the contents of the cardboard boxes in a circle on the blue tray adorned with small whirls of gold.

They wait for Éva to change and make coffee before they eat. Bucky keeps rolling his eyes at Steve, who looks like the cat that's burgled the cream factory. He's even dressed less casually, a dark blue Henley and jeans melting against his frame seamlessly. Bucky tries to remember whether New (old) Steve had paid much attention to what he was wearing, but he can't bring himself to remember New (old) Steve now. New New Steve, who'd climbed to his bed last night and is stealing glances, flashing open-mouthed smiles at him across Éva's table – that's the only Steve he cares to think about in this moment.

Éva announces her arrival with the clattering of metal on porcelain, sporting a dark blue velvet dress this morning with silver embroidery in the shape of galaxies – standing beside Steve in his complementary blues. Steve helps her arrange the dishes around the table before taking a seat on the sofa beside Bucky, leaving Éva with the armchair. Bucky's sure that's usually Steve's domain, not least of all because of the quizzical look she gives Steve, that the man doesn't even notice because his mind is set on exterminating the pastries. Bucky takes the pink and silver glazed ones right away, while Steve chips away at the pixelated grumpy emoticon pastry. Éva takes one look at what's on offer and produces a biscuit out of her cookie jar.

'Have you ever been married,' Steve asks conversationally, dunking the gigantic frowning eye of the donut into his tiny coffee cup.

'Not in a courthouse.'

'What does that mean,' Bucky joins the interrogation, in his usual blunt fashion he knows she'll appreciate.

'That I lived with many different people in my life. People I loved, people I was loyal to. That I never signed my name on a piece of paper that obligated me to be so.'

' _That's_ what the kids call a mic-drop,' Bucky tries to high-five Éva, who shoots him down with the most are-you-actually-serious look he's ever seen.

'Was Magda one of those people,' Steve asks ignoring Bucky's hand hanging in the air. _What are you thinking, Steven Grant Rogers_ , Bucky seethes. This is _not_ easy-going breakfast banter. Oblivious to Bucky's discomfort, Steve continues. 'The girl who sang that song to you, who taught you to make the Christmas cookies?'

As if she'd need reminding, Bucky rolls his eyes, at least 80% certain that what Steve is clumsily implying is actually true.

 _'Ah_ ,' Éva smiles, oddly calm despite Steve's breach of propriety. Bucky surmises they might've discussed similar topics in the past, or at least – that they're closer than what it appeared to him. Why else would she seem as indifferent to the question? 'Do you know what that song is about?'

'No clue,' Steve shrugs.

'You have fallen off your horse, my angel, and broken your hands. Wherewith will you embrace me?'

'That's morbid,' Bucky comments before he can observe that same propriety the lack of which he'd judged Steve for a mere moment ago.

'It's also kind of beautiful,' Steve supplies, obviously uneasy, though Éva doesn't seem offended.

'We thought it was _romantic_ ,' she exhales, dramatically waving her hands about to add the appropriate melodrama to the statement. 'With these old folk songs, you can spend years researching where they come from, but never truly know them. They are fairytales, if you will, with the dark twists we were spared from as children kept intact.'

'And Magda sang that to you?'

Steve hands Éva the little bowl of sugar cubes just as her hand reaches out to fetch one. Bucky feels like he shouldn't be a part of this conversation: it's too intimate somehow, both between Steve and Éva and himself and Steve. He wonders if this isn't by design.

'She did. She also sang _Szól a kakas már_ , When the rooster calls. _Wait bird, wait. If god has ordained me for you, I will be yours yet_. It was so funny to us. To subvert the old, to make it ours.'

'What happened? To you two?'

Éva takes her time dunking the sugar cube into her coffee and eating it like a candy. It's drawn out; she's buying time to think of an answer – the first time Bucky's seen her near-speechless. Judging by Steve's guilty expression, he notices the same.

'Magda sang many songs,' she finally says. 'Most beautifully. Many were not in a key that was accepted at the time, you understand? How thorn birds die, with their most beautiful song still in the air. A _darker_ fairytale.'

'She died?' Bucky shudders at the idea of death with no resurrections.

'In 1956. Shot during the protests.' The words might be matter-of-fact, but the slight tremble in her hand betrays her. Bucky understands. There are things we never heal from, as much as we try to pretend otherwise. He should know.

'If you want ironic,' Éva continues, 'we were – the two of us – socialists. _Real_ socialists, not those apparatchiks who could not tell Marx from Ayn Rand. We bothered them more than any of the nationalists – we were who they had wanted and failed to be. But, perhaps it was not even that. Perhaps I wish it was meaningful. Sometimes, you simply found yourself in the wrong place at the wrong hour, and you sang no more. It was chaos.'

'It didn't happen like that, where I came from,' Steve says, unsure. Bucky can see the same fight from days before play out across his face, trying to gauge how much to tell her about the other timeline. Steve comes to the same conclusion now as he did then, when he realizes his statement has puzzled Éva, perhaps more than anything either of them have ever said: more even than the fact that she's sitting in her living room with a young Captain America and his trusty sidekick – two men she'd read comic books about as a child.

'The revolution,' Steve expands. 'It worked, in my – where I came from. Very peacefully, too, if you don't count the assassinations of the major players and Soviet loyalists. The USSR had too much on its plate with various uprisings in its immediate borders to deal with Hungary, or Czechoslovakia for that matter – that also happened a decade before, right after the Hungarian uprising. There was never a Berlin wall, either, it was all much more.. quiet. The people everywhere flooded the streets, and they prevailed. Chose better, chose wisely. Socialists, in some places, _real_ ones – if their policies were anything to judge by. I'd never seen such a thing, Peggy and me, we watched it all on the television – she cried, it was so beautiful.' Both Bucky and Éva stare at him, blown away by the sudden information dump. He adds sheepishly, 'I may have cried, too.'

When Bucky turns to their host, it's obvious she's confused by the same ambivalence as him, only without the extra pinch of responsibility. It's difficult to reconcile what one knows of history, especially the terrible things one has witnessed first-hand, or, in Bucky's case, he – or some version of him – has brought about, with even the idea that better things had been possible. So much of our acceptance of pain and loss hinges on the belief about their inevitability; in making peace that we are often helpless against the tides of the world as a whole. To be made aware of another way – in a past we could never revert to, having seen what we've seen and knowing what we know – is as much a blessing as it is a curse. It had lead Bucky down some dark paths in the couple of days he's had to process the information, and he's worried about Éva until she reveals the full set of teeth framed by purple lipstick, her face beaming with delight as she carefully takes a cigarette out of the star-engraved silver case they bought her for Christmas.

'I don't know if that helps, or makes it worse, I'm sorry,' Steve apologizes needlessly. 'I'm sorry it wasn't the same _here_.'

'It was long ago, István,' she gently taps his hand. 'Magda – _my_ Magda – she rests.'

'Do _you_? I mean, did you ever..' Bucky speaks without thinking, _again_. He's getting far too invested in the story, thinking – if those other Steve and Bucky had had a chance to make things right, perhaps so did the other Éva and Magda. It sounds too childishly naïve to even begin putting in words.

Éva raises her eyebrows, takes a drag from her cigarette.

'Of course. I was still _young_ _enough_. But if you are asking me did I forget, James? Never.' Bucky steals a glance at Steve, who is staring at the silver cigarette case.

'May I?'

Éva chuckles and pushes it toward him across the table.

'What is mine is yours, my friend,' she says, amused. Then, with another puff, she continues. 'We spent our best years together, Magda and me. I lived with another man, later. Then I no longer lived with him. Then I met someone else. Then I preferred to be alone. _Life_.'

'I see,' Steve says, warily testing the lit cigarette against his lips. Bucky wants to wrench it from him to smoke it himself, in a last-ditch effort to soothe his anxiety over the direction this conversation has taken.

'We did not have words for who we were, but we also never needed them. We knew the only one that mattered, love _._ Do you not think it true? That this is the only word that matters?'

He's not sure who the question is directed to, but as Steve was the last one to speak, Bucky decides to let him stumble out of the mess on his own.

'I do, of course. _Now_ , anyway. I don't think I was quite as progressive in the '30s or the 40's. I never thought about it.'

'Did you not?' Éva asks. Her eyes are all innocence, but Bucky knows better than to believe the pretense. He can't help gawking at Steve as he tries to escape the spiderweb he's willingly flung himself into. Éva takes pity on him, however, before Bucky can blurt out whatever it is he was going to say.

'Men find it more difficult to accept the obvious,' she shrugs. 'There _are_ words now, so many words. One can pick and choose. Myself, I do not need to anymore.'

'I'm sorry if I put you on the spot,' Steve says, regaining a sense of decency. 'I didn't mean to, truly.'

'You did not?' Éva laughs, Steve joins in soon after.

'I was just.. curious. I've wanted to ask you about your life for awhile, but I've hated the idea of drudging up nasty memories. I'm sorry if I did.'

'My dear István, I am so happy you have asked me something _personal,_ finally. That you feel comfortable, to think of me as your friend.'

Steve and her gaze at each other for a long moment in some unspoken pact of mutual understanding Bucky can't fully comprehend.

'Serves me right, interrogating you two all this time,' she casts her eyes on the table and grabs the last pink-glazed donut, winking at Bucky.

'I was saving that, you know.'

'It's all the sweeter for it.'

Steve checks his watch and pokes Bucky with his elbow, signaling that it's time to move.

'We need to leave anyway, if I plan on checking anything other than breakfast off my list before it's this guy's turn.'

' _Of course_ there's a list,' Bucky deadpans.

'You bet your ass,' Steve winks and it's entirely out of character yet fully welcome.

*

'I thought politics and bad things were off limits today,' Bucky says as they're climbing up to the castle around the old fortress walls, their boots slipping on the frozen cobblestones. The wind is hitting them hard from the river below and they are completely at its mercy, though it's a price worth paying for the view.

'What do you mean,' Steve asks, playing coy. 'I just remarked on how we need some new footwear.'

' _What I mean_ ,' Bucky rolls his eyes, 'is _before_. I can recognize an ambush when I see one, Rogers.'

Steve smirks.

'You would, wouldn't you? I thought Mrs. Csillag could use a taste of her own medicine.'

'That's all that was?'

'What else would it be?'

Bucky doesn't respond, but Steve knows him better than to think he's been fooled. He is, however, grateful for the lack of follow-through.

Step after step they go, up to the bastion. There’s a great view from the rear of the old town: Bucky will like the ugliness, Steve thinks. Perhaps, as most people do, he'd prefer to look over to the other side, to Pest – the turrets of the Parliament piercing the vanilla clouds like a hundred little needles, bleeding pink. Perhaps he'd like to see the old Jewish quarter where they live stretching out to the right in all its splendid decrepitness and the glorious Danube separating them from the burden of history. Then, Bucky could turn his gaze to the Chain bridge connecting the past and somewhat-present from there, and Margit island if he cocked his head enough to the left, where families gather on Sundays that are decidedly anything but gloomy.

That's not what Steve wants to show him, and they are still on his time. He wants to buy lunch at the small food stand he'd found during a walk when Bucky had been out of town for a mission – chestnuts and corn and one of those deep fried pancakes he'd kept eyeing but didn't dare eat in his old body – then sit on the wall overlooking the uniform modern neighborhoods on the other side of the city, where _real_ people live their _real_ lives. Steve knows how inaccurate the statement is, being himself a real person living on the other side of the river. There's something indescribably special about that stretch of inconspicuous grey and brown buildings spanning all the way up into the hills, peppered here and there with tiny parks with swings and seesaws for the children to play on, that fills him with peace. It is at once both old and modern, lived-in and desolate. A couple of the large buildings he suspects were hotels or public offices had been left to decay after the Snap: they are now being repaired, one glass pane and iron bar at a time. There are cranes as far as the eye can see, lifting and lowering cement blocks and construction material. Rebuilding.

Steve isn't quite sure himself of what he's trying to achieve, with this walk, this game, the conversation with Éva or his behavior from the previous night. But finally looking out at the city – a lángos dripping grease through the paper wrapping down his fingers, sour cream and garlic around both of their mouths – he thinks, _this is why_. He'd needed to see that restoration, improvement, was still possible. It is a rare sunny day in February, neither unbearably hot nor inconveniently freezing; a treat in the womb of a year; and he – Steve Rogers – is young again, making new memories, fully capable of enjoying the sunshine.

'My 100-year-something arteries wouldn't appreciate this, but damn it's good,' he jokes. Bucky is sitting beside him on the wall, their feet dangling above the park and walkway below.

'This is a good time for a photo,' Bucky takes his phone out. 'Sam will never believe me otherwise.'

Steve groans, but leans forward just the same. He remembers those pictures of Nat Sam had brought to the farewell by the river, and decides it's good to have _some_ souvenirs – evidence that things happened and that they were, more often than your skeptical brain would have you believe, good. Their two heads come together, the fried monstrosity taking up most of the photo, with only a hint of the background. Buck types in a couple of names and sends it to what he titles the Goldie&Friends group: Sam, Clint, Wanda, T'Challa, Shuri, Bruce and Sharon. Steve suppresses his protest at including Sharon because he's realized from his short trips to the US and their mission briefings how highly Bucky thinks of her. To be fair, she hadn't even existed in the other timeline, so his misplaced attempt at romance here was much less headache-inducing than it could've been. It doesn't mean he takes it lightly that his best friend (for lack of a better term) is also friendly with a woman he kissed once, but then.. she's a woman he kissed once. He leaves his overthinking about the whole situation for another time. 

Bucky's phone rings seconds after he's sent the picture, and it's Sam. Steve experiences the same outpouring of joy as he had last night when he'd talked to his friend for the first time in months, after not being sure during that time he'd ever even speak to him at all.

'I haven't been awake for _a day_ , and you're already teasing me with this fried goodness,' he moans from the hospital bed. He looks good – Steve concludes with satisfaction – much better than Steve had imagined.

'No fried food,' Mrs. Wilson admonishes from the background.

'I'm only _looking at it_ , Ma!' Sam protests.

'Feeling okay?' Bucky giggles.

'Yeah, thanks. Would feel a lot better if I could _get some rest_ ,' he says pointedly to someone not on screen.

'Enjoy the coddling,' Steve laughs. 'It'll be short-lived.'

'What are you two up to anyway,' Sam asks. 'Visiting the sights this late in the game?'

'So, Steve has this idea that because it's – ' Bucky's dying to tell Sam about the happiness-adventure-meaning treasure hunt they're on, but Steve cuts him off like it's nobody's business.

'I have the idea of a _day off_.'

'I ain't judging!'

'Say hello to Stevie for me,' Mrs. Wilson coos and Sam rolls his eyes.

'My mother says hello, _Stevie_ ,' he repeats.

'Hello Mrs. Wilson,' Steve promptly replies. So does Bucky, though he's somewhat lower on her list of favorite people, what with being an international assassin who landed her son in a super-secret superhero prison, whom she's seen twice in her life.

Steve's phone vibrates with new messages in the group chat.

Clint: New hangover food option, thanks.

Wanda: This is Sokovian.

Shuri sends a selfie of herself, eating something that looks frighteningly similar, in her lab.

T'Challa: It's dripping all over your computer, sis. Careful.

Shuri: spoilsport

T'Challa: I would also like to try this Hungarian copy of our dish.

Sharon: Clint, you need to come pick up the files I told you about YESTERDAY.

Clint: (typing)

Sharon: While Clint is coming up with excuses, enjoy the food guys!

Wanda, replying to T'Challa: The Sokovian dish. _Originally_.

T'Challa: Of course.

Bruce: *weird Hulk thumbs-up emoji*

Bucky sends them all a thumbs up emoji in return. Steve informs him this is equivalent to flipping someone off, which makes him enjoy it all the more.

'The gang being.. gang-y,' Sam asks.

'You know it.' There's a rumbling at Sam's end just as Steve's about to ask – again – how he's feeling.

'Listen, I'll have to hang up now because this very nice nurse has come in and is warning me I'm not supposed to be on my phone with all these machines around. I'll catch you later guys – do keep me posted about your treasure hunt.'

'Sure thing,' Bucky is quick to reply. 'It's my turn to pick activities soon.'

Sam grins.

'Don't disappoint me, my man.'

'Never, partner,' Buck gives him the thumbs up, only live this time, which Steve supposes isn't as bad as the virtual gesture.

'Let us know when we can come and visit,' he adds.

'Can't come soon enough as far as I'm concerned, but nobody's askin' me. I'll text you when the doc gives the green light.'

'Just get a lot of rest and don't worry about anything – we've got you covered.'

'Stuffin' yourselves with greasy dough and takin' long romantic walks around a European city? Sure sounds like it.'

'Goodbye, Sam,' Steve rolls his eyes as Bucky shrugs.

'The man has a point, Steven.'

'Steven? Who are you, Mrs. Wilson?'

Bucky playingly elbows Steve's ribs and leans into his arm, remaining there. They stay on the ledge for more than an hour **,** eyes fixed on the hills and the occasional passers-by. Though they're not as high above to be completely spared the hustle-and-bustle of the trams, buses and cars below – the sound reaches them differently there. It's a soft, background hum you can easily shut off rather than a cacophony demanding immediate attention. Steve feels like he could float away on this sound as if on a cloud – suspended above the city by the concentrated noise of others' lives, his own but a dream of the people below. And isn't there some truth in that, he wonders – isn't it how the majority of people have seen him since he'd gotten out of the Vita-Ray Chamber – heavier and _much_ more imposing, yet simultaneously more ethereal: reduced to a wisp of smoke, an idea. He suspects the powers-that-be had intended as much. You can't kill an idea with the same ease you can a man, even a super-man. _His_ life – _Steve Rogers'_ life – had never meant much more than that. People had feared and prayed for Captain America. Bucky and Peggy were the only two people to pray for Steve Rogers, or would've, had they believed that words spoken into the darkness could do much good.

'Hey,' Bucky nudges him when the bells of Matthias Church behind them toll for the fourth time, without any acknowledgment from Steve. 'Are you alright?'

'I think so,' Steve mumbles.

'What's got you down?'

'End-life crisis?' Steve tries for a joke, which Bucky doesn't find the least bit funny. Of course he wouldn't. Steve tries again, this time with the truth. 'This world has no use for Steve Rogers,' he sighs, 'and I don't think I know how to be that other guy anymore.'

Bucky lets out a long breath, wiggling his eyebrows. He seems to be considering several options of how to answer the question before his shoulders sag and he quirks his mouth, like Steve remembers him doing hundreds of times when they were young, when Steve would lay out a particularly difficult problem to his friend and Bucky had known he wouldn't like his solution.

'Pal, I don't think the world ever had a use for Steve Rogers. Or Bucky Barnes, for that matter. Or any of those other guys we served with back in the war, or _you_ served with after. In the past-future.'

'Promising start,' Steve laughs.

'Nah, listen – when all's said and done, nobody ever expected us to do much. You least of all, at first. _I did_ , of course, but I'm particularly smart. And despite that – Steve, you changed the world, _several_ _worlds_ , just being the stubborn punk that you are. And that's all _you_ , and _none_ of the other guy. He's just the facade, the pretty wrapping. _You're_ the gift.'

For a moment, Steve fears he's going to cry or do something else equally embarrassing.

'You really think so? I'm a _gift_ ,' he chuckles.

'Sometimes a gift like the Trojan horse getting us beat up six ways to Sunday _every Sunday_ ,' Bucky quips. 'But if the world doesn't know what it's got, I do. That little guy from Brooklyn, _that's_ who I can't imagine my world without.'

Steve processes the words, knowing Bucky is being honest – cherishing that honesty, truly, but still incapable of not addressing the glaring caveat.

'Is that still me,' he asks, certain he's pushed Buck over a limit that's been forbidden by the day's rules. He needs to know the answer all the same, defining as it is of how he dares to imagine his life in the next four years.

'I'm beginning to think so,' Bucky says, simply. It's not total assent, but it also isn't the decisive no Steve had expected. He checks his watch, dismayed to realize he's stolen almost half an hour or Bucky's time on the maudlin conversation.

'Alright – it's your turn.'

Steve turns around and jumps off the wall. Bucky follows suit.

'Was wondering when you'd figure it out,' he smirks. 'Old age has made you way too emotional.'

Steve doesn't disagree.

*

A shooting range. Axe throwing. Car-racing. The movies. Steve would've understood any of those choices, which makes the place he's now in front of all the more ridiculous.

'An _arcade_ ,' he repeats, incredulous.

'A _museum_ ,' Bucky corrects, dragging him by the sleeve of his coat into the basement one doesn't even have to possess super-hearing to know is chock full of children. Teenagers, to be precise. Perfect.

'They have pinball machines from the _thirties_ , Steve,' Bucky explains animatedly as he pays the entrance fee and the girl on the counter glues paper bracelets on the both of them. Bucky makes sure he gives her the flesh arm. 'I can finally break my record,' he continues as he pushes Steve beside a small bar – nothing alcoholic from the looks of it, as if that would help – and into a maze of.. well, pinball machines.

'Buck. I'm... _a hundred and six_. You're, like, _at least_ _fifty._ '

'What's your point?'

'I guess I don't have one,' Steve surrenders.

Bucky smirks, victorious, and runs along the newer, more complex games to find the promised land of 1930's wooden toys. Steve lags behind, somewhat apprehensive to actually _play_ the machines, until he hears a teenage boy laugh with his friend about the 'old dude' who's probably a tourist and can't play for shit. Well, _that_ does it. Steve is additionally insulted on behalf of his older-bodied self, trying not to even imagine the kind of epithets he'd have gotten in that state.

'Care for a wager,' he approaches the boy and his friend, speaking in broken Hungarian. They look at each other and shrug, 'Sure thing, grandpa. We pick the machines.'

'Fine.'

Naturally, he loses, but he puts up a valiant effort that does not go unrecognized by his detractors, who soon begin cheering him on when he gets close to defeating them.

'Not bad, man,' one of the boys says in English. They play some more – Star Wars, Indiana Jones, Twilight Zone - while Bucky curses audibly from the other room, apparently also being beaten, by his old self. Steve treats his new friends to sodas and popcorn at the 'bar' which, as he'd first suspected, is fully child-proof.

They talk about their parents – both their mothers had been Snapped and they'd spent the last five years in a community orphanage after their fathers had gotten laid off and were unable to support them. Steve listens to their stories and tries not to feel responsible, something he also fails at.

'But, I meet my best friend,' says Gábor, talking about their time in the system. 'Best buddy for _flipper_.'

'Best,' the other boy energetically nods, wrapping an arm around his friend's shoulder. 'Free – _flipper,_ free,' he supplies and shows Steve a thumbs up. Steve gathers it means they let them come and play here for free, which he isn't the least bit sour about.

'That's good,' he says. 'Look out for each other.'

They both roll their eyes at the presumption of the old American guy, telling them something so self-evident. Steve wishes he spoke better Hungarian – to tell them how life can pummel you so hard down into the ground that you forget who your friends are; that it can seem you don't have any left, even. That it will test you over and over again; demanding sacrifice, asking you to _choose_ between rocks and other hard places. That you have to build the strongest foundation now, to have something to start from later on when devastation comes. He decides it's a good thing his Hungarian is still bad, since his wise-old-man monologue would probably traumatize the children. They'd had enough hardship as is, he concludes, no need to bring dark omens into this place, where they are safe and happy.

Thankfully, Bucky appears not long after, huffing and puffing, then bursting into laughter at the sight of Steve sipping a Pepsi through a straw, sitting on miniature chairs with two fourteen-year-olds.

'Ready to move, Stevie,' he manages to squeeze out between two breaths.

'Fuck you,' Steve says to the endless pleasure of the two boys.

'Bad word,' Gábor points and laughs.

'Yeah, yeah, you didn't hear it from me.' He ruffles the hair on both their heads, leaving them a couple of notes with a wink. 'A bet's a bet.'

They don't even say goodbye properly, marveling at their winnings. So much for loyalty.

'Where to,' Steve asks as they ascend from the basement into an even darker street. Right, winter. He checks his clock. It's almost 8 PM. 'What the... We stayed in there for three hours?'

'Time flies when you're having fun,' Bucky reiterates.

'I thought you were losing? I sure as Hell was. How is that fun?'

'It's about the _game_ ,' Bucky pointedly replies. 'I could spend an entire day there, you know.'

'I _fear_ that might be true.'

'Let's go home,' Buck shrugs.

'Really? Nothing else you wanna try?'

'Nah,' Bucky shakes his head. 'This has been good, Steve. _Real good_. If I could choose – I'd like quiet evenings at home for the next four years. So let's do that.'

Steve can see the appeal of the suggestion, but he still buys an unholy amount of krémes cubes on the way back to make their dinner somewhat more luxurious. It turns out to be a good decision, because hitting the spoon against the jiggly egg cream amuses Bucky for minutes on end, until Steve has to _actually_ tell him to stop playing with his food.

Bucky's wish for boring domesticity reminds Steve of how differently he seems to be living now, in comparison to his life in Wakanda. At first he's not sure if he should broach the topic, but inhibitions be damned – he'll censor himself tomorrow. He grabs two pale ales from the fridge – they keep the stuff mostly out of nostalgia for the _taste_ of beer – in this case, the familiarity might help to get the conversation rolling.

'Why'd you join the Avengers,' he asks as he hands Buck one of the colorful cans. 'You didn't seem like you wanted to stay in the fight, before Thanos.'

'I wasn't,' Bucky shrugs. 'Things changed.'

'What things?'

'You. Sam. I don't know. I was.. in a world I didn't have a clue about, again. _The goats were gone_. Figured I might as well do what I do best.'

It hurts Steve to hear that what Bucky thinks he does best is killing – even if this time, he's doing it for the 'right' side. Is that true, or has it also been an illusion? Steve has always prided himself in being able to tell the good guys from the bullies, but more and more – especially with SHIELD and Ross – he'd begun to think the only side worth fighting for was their own. If fighting is even inevitable.

'I'm okay,' Steve says, sounding unsure even to himself. 'Sam's gonna get better, too. I wish.. you'd think about – just think about – what's right for you. If it's really the fight.'

'This feels like a conversation we've already had, Steve. One in which I said I'm _trying_.'

'You're right. There I go, hogging your time again. It's still not midnight,' he says. 'Famous last words?'

*

'Read to me,' Bucky says.

It isn't something he'd planned on, not even something that had crossed his mind. In the moment, he just wants to stop Steve asking the hard questions and lay sprawled against the sofa with the pleasant timbre of his voice, saying words. Any words. If this game is about what he wants his life to be like, there are worse things than Steve reading to him in the evenings.

'Something good,' he warns. 'Not TS Eliot. Read me something _you_ like.'

Steve nods, understanding what Bucky is _really_ saying, or at least Bucky hopes he is. He wants Steve to read something he's never read to anyone else; something Peggy didn't know or didn't explain to him. He wants them to come to their own, joint interpretation of poetry. A tall order for less than an hour. Steve takes the iPad from his desk and scrolls for ages, sitting on the opposite side of the couch. Bucky can't help but straighten his legs, reaching his friend's back with the tips of his toes. After last night, it doesn't seem like an intrusion.

'Alright, I found one. Ready?'

'Hit me.'

'Alright,' Steve repeats, a little shy. Then he starts reading, his voice growing deeper, pushed into the lower registers as if laden with inconceivable sadness. ' _We are the men who are always late, we are the men who come from far away_. _Our walk is always weary and sad, we are the men who are always late. We do not even know how to die in peace_.' Steve's voice breaks on that line, Bucky nudges him with his foot to continue. He wonders why all poems sound like something dangerously close to their situation. Is Steve picking them on purpose? Or does everyone feel that way – is it the reason people like and read poetry in the first place – because it resonates with their perceptions of...love? He shuffles the word around in his mind, tries it as a signifier for Steve: after avoiding it like the plague for who knows how long, he has to admit the shoe fits.

' _When the face of distant death appears, our souls splash into a tam tam of flame. We do not even know how to die in peace. We are the men who are always late_.' A small smile escapes Steve; Bucky knows why. This is the two of them, word for word. They have always been the ones late to their own funerals.

' _We are never on time with our success, our dreams, our heaven, or our embrace. We are the men who are always late._ ' Steve recites the final lines, then turns the iPad off and lowers it into his lap, not looking at Bucky.

'Who's it by,' Bucky goes for the obvious question first.

'Endre Ady, a Hungarian poet. I had some time to kill, when you were away. He was one of my favorites.'

'It's beautiful,' Bucky remarks. 'Do you think.. do you feel like _we're_ the men who are always late,' he adds, in their usual language of double-talk, and in-between the lines this time, to boot. Steve brushes invisible dust off the iPad screen, still avoiding eye contact.

'I don't know, Buck. You.. _you_ might also be early. Me?' He scoffs.

'Not going anywhere without you, pal, remember? Thanks for reading it to me.'

Steve squeezes Bucky's ankle, hidden under the blanket by his side. The movement is sad somehow, in sharp contrast to the cheeky words.

'My pleasure. You know I _love_ educating you.'

 _'You_ educating _me_ , Rogers,' Bucky scoffs. ' _As if_.'

'There's still some time until midnight. Anything _you_ want to school me on, Barnes? Give it your best shot.'

It's so tempting, really, almost like Steve's _asking_ for it. They look at each other from where they're leaning on the opposite ends of the sofa, a look the length of which doesn't lend itself to easy misinterpretations.

 _What the fuck is going on_ , Bucky frantically tries to get a better read on the situation as anxiety builds in the pit of his stomach. _What if I do something_ , he wonders. _What if I lean over – it's not a big couch, not too small either –_ _I can do it and check Steve's reaction at the same time, pretend I was grabbing the.. pillow behind him?_ That's the worst excuse ever, he knows, but it would save them from the resulting awkwardness if it turns out Steve _doesn't_ want Bucky closer to... do what exactly?

Bucky isn't sure when he'd even started thinking about whatever he's thinking about as something Steve might want. (That's a blatant lie: it was yesterday, when Steve had come into his bedroom for the second time and fallen asleep holding his hand.) But a day is nowhere near enough time to digest everything _that_ had resulted in, let alone the day they've just had, adding more fuel to the fire. The conversation with Éva. The long looks. _The poem_.

Coy is not a word anyone would've pinned on him back in the day, that much he remembers for certain. He'd always known how to get what he wanted, or at least – what he'd _let_ himself want; never venturing too far along the threads that bound Steve and him together in fear he'd have to face that the one thing that mattered – truly mattered – was the thing he'd never have. That 'never' seems flimsier now, an empty word, with this Steve two arm-lengths away from him, waiting. _What are you waiting for, Steve_ , Bucky wants to cry out in rage and despair, _you know I'm never gonna ask you to stay_. _Don't ask this of me. Or do, but use your words, damn it. Don't ask me to ask you to stay_. _Just...stay_.

Before the different parts of his brain can come to a unanimous decision about what he really wants to either do or say to Steve, the first toll of the midnight bell from the church across the street shatters the moment.

*

The bells ring for midnight. First, second, third...Time is passing and it feels like this is the last day he has left to live, only a couple of tolls of the bell more and he's done. It's impossible to let the thought go – he _can't_ be done without... After the sixth toll, sitting on the grey sofa in the grey room, he drops the iPad from his lap thinking it's a book (Pepper can just get him another one, he vaguely justifies the thump). He pulls himself up to his knees, propelling his body across Bucky's legs, to where he sits, ostensibly frozen on the spot.

Steve draws close – as close as he can to signal that this is the borderline; the distance when a kiss becomes inevitable, if one wants it to be. He gives Bucky the chance to recoil, to throw in a smartass remark, to pull away. He doesn't even flinch. Steve brings his hand up to Bucky's cheek, the other resting on the edge of the couch, trapping him in an invisible embrace.

'Are you testing a theory,' Bucky asks in the last moment before Steve's lips brush against his own.

 _No_ , Steve thinks. _This isn't a test we can fail_. He kisses James Buchanan Barnes, Bucky, the Winter Solider, White Wolf – his best friend, brother-in-arms, enemy; the man he's missed for eons. _Whoever you are_ , Steve thinks, _that's alright with me_. _Whoever you want to be, I accept it_. And of course it's selfish, because the prayer holds another, unsaid one at its tail: I hope you can accept me, whoever I am, too.

Just as he pulls away for air, Steve realizes the bells have stopped ringing. Bucky's looking at him warily from barely an inch away, his mouth half-open and wet where Steve's lips had been a moment ago, the beginning of a frown setting across his brow.

'Steve?'

The name sounds broken, it doesn't fit, yet he's heard it before said in this way, as Bucky vanished from one blink to the next – Steve has heard it once and it was enough. _I should've kept my eyes open_ , he thinks desperately, but seals them tightly shut all the same not to witness losing Bucky for the second, third, n-th time. _What have I done_ , he screams into the abyss of his mind. Bucky pushes him away, yelling _Stevestevesteve_ , but Steve can't comprehend what's happening. He only knows that Bucky is going to die, vanish, snap-snap-snap – _Stevestevesteve;_ who's shouting his name? – the day is ending, the whole world is ending, and it'd better be the whole world, Steve pleads, not just the half of it this time. _You need to do the job right, Thanos. We leave no man behind_.

A weight shifts on top of him, seconds before a firm slap across his cheek teleports him back to the reality of the grey couch, in the grey room, in the grey apartment he is sharing with Bucky Barnes, who is still alive. He opens his eyes. Bucky is straddling him on the couch, his eyes wild and unreadable.

'Steve.' he says angrily. Despite the anger, though, Steve's name is no longer a question, it becomes a statement. He's grateful for that.

'Bucky. I...'

'Shut up.'

Out of all the men his friend has been – still is, sometimes – it's Bucky Barnes who kisses him back. It's Steve Rogers who holds onto his arms as if they’re the last shred of his sanity, Bucky the only corporeal bit of matter left in a universe where all things have been rendered intangible. He brushes his fingers through the hair mussed with pomade, as he’d wanted to do for years. It comes back in flashes, in floods – how they met, how they became what they were – two people who loved each other. Two people who could only allow themselves to be together now, in an experiment with life-shattering results.

'The theory required further testing,' Bucky whispers as he pushes away from Steve and up from the couch. For a terrifying second, Steve thinks he'll leave him in the room alone, anchorless. 'Come on,' Bucky motions to the hallway and the bedrooms. 'I'll watch over you.'

'Promise?'

Steve isn't _really_ asking Bucky to watch for monsters that crawl out from underneath beds or cupboards just to get his beauty sleep. He knows he'll encounter plenty in his nightmares: this is unavoidable. What he needs is to see Bucky's face when his eyes fly open, after the millionth time the familiar movie plays out in his head. After the dreaded question, he wants to wake up to Bucky saying his name like a statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter include an implied PTSD-induced panic attack, mentions of death, war, and swearing. 
> 
> Fun fact(s): Wanda's despair at lángos being Sokovian mirrors my own, from when I first moved to Budapest and found my favorite childhood carnival treat being advertised as a national treasure. I have since accepted the fact that Hungary is in deed where this tasty-death-for-the-whole-family invention originated. They have my eternal thanks for that. The Pinball Museum is an actual, real place and as close to Heaven as I let myself believe in. 
> 
> As usual, I invite you all to share your thoughts and/or groans about the chapter in the comments. Also, sending love and hugs to everyone in the US - you've had an *eventful* last week, to put it mildly, and I hope you're all happy with its outcomes/glad that it's over.


	8. Man I'm Supposed To Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky talk, then talk some more. A not-good thing happens, which leads to the purchase of some decidedly not-grey furniture. Sam plays counsellor-in-residence in the States, Pepper has a crazy idea, Bruce has a breakthrough about the terrorists' plans. Steve also has a breakthrough, about his place in this future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am again running (a day!) late – my apologies! The amount of things happening required some serious editing to make sure everything tracks, hopefully it comes together in something resembling a whole.
> 
> The title comes from yet another song in my eclectic music library, this time by [American Aquarium.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJYd9GqMyi4)
> 
> Content warnings include strong language, reference to physical injuries and murder, and some oblique references/descriptions of PTSD.

Bucky stays awake through the night to make certain he's there to pull Steve out when he falls through to whatever Hell is for him now. He does it twice. He's thankful for the mission of holding vigil over Steve, the veneer of purpose – it's unlikely he would've slept anyway. Like this, he can at least pretend that rummaging the previous day for clues and portents of what happened is merely a way to pass the time, not an absolute necessity to maintain his sanity. There are no indications he can think of – small moments or big – that would foreshadow the evening in hindsight. When he doesn't find satisfying answers in the present, he allows himself to dig further down.

Sitting by Steve's bedside isn't wholly foreign to Bucky – they've lived this life before, even if some of the particulars are different at the moment – all those other times, he'd been afraid that Steve would disappear on him during the night, not the other way around.

The look on Steve's face is what scares him the most – every time he woke up, he appeared to hover out of space and out of time, shutting himself off completely and relinquishing control to whatever it was he was seeing, locking Bucky away with the rest of the world. Even old New Steve hadn't been as unreachable. _Which monsters are you hiding caged in your head_ , _what have we unlocked_ , Bucky wonders as Steve stirs and blinks his eyes awake. _Tell me where to find you and I'll come along to the fight_.

'Good morning,' Steve says into the pillow, turning over in the bed to look at Bucky. There's barely any light in the room: a cold winter dawn in a matchstick box with no windows. Bucky turns on the bedside lamp and puts a tentative hand on Steve's shoulder – the Vibranium one, to allow for the pretense of one degree of separation.

'Hey, pal.'

'You didn't get any sleep?'

'Don't need much to keep me going. Besides, can't get rid of this beauty as easy.'

Steve chuckles and squeezes the Vibranium hand on this shoulder.

'Cos there's nothin' to get rid of?'

It's scary how easily they fall into banter with each other. It only takes for one of them to start with a smartass remark and it can go for hours. Bucky decides not to take the bait this time, because the day will end and they'll not have said one serious, true thing to the other. After last night, this is no longer an option, as strongly as he himself would like to avoid any sort of Conversation, capital C.

'Care to tell me about it?'

The segue is intentionally vague to let Steve decide what he wants to address first. The grateful smile he gives Bucky acknowledges this small kindness.

'If I say no, will you drop it?'

'No,' Bucky grins.

'That's fair.' Steve shifts up on the bed and leans against the wall, gaze fixed on the door – slightly ajar because he'd crushed the handle a few nights ago. He begins fiddling with the edge of the duvet in his lap, making Bucky even more nervous.

'I used to have nightmares, after Wakanda. For years, and then...'

'And then you skipped realities.' Bucky tries not to sound resentful as he says it.

'Yes and no. It was quiet for a while, that's true. But.. things happened, things... that brought all of that back.'

Bucky nods, though he isn't sure what could've happened to trigger Steve's subconscious as much in the other life which, to him, sounded as close to perfect as either of their lives could get. Unless..

'Was it because – because you couldn't find me? The other me?'

Steve nods, imperceptibly.

'It was like failing the world all over again. Only, a different kind of failure. I can't _explain_ it. It was more...'

'Personal?'

'Yes, but that's not it. I thought.. I was _sure_ I'd done everything right, things were better, you know? But then I botched the one thing that.. well, that mattered. To me. The world didn't blink an eye, it just carried on. I resented it for that. It all came flooding back: Thanos, Vision, Nat, Tony. Sokovia, Pietro. The Alps. The Triskelion. I just kept losing and nobody was aware.'

'You didn't _lose_ any of those battles, Steve,' Bucky frowns. 

'But that's just it – _I_ did. I scrambled last-minute tricks and other people took the fall, but me? I couldn't.. I _wouldn't_ compromise, and it backed everyone else against the wall. In the end, I was fine, living this picture perfect life I'd stolen, but I couldn't right _one_ thing on my own. And I couldn't let it go.'

Bucky wonders just how long Steve had looked for him in that other timeline. It hadn't crossed his mind before – he'd imagined the search more like an afterthought of Steve-the-husband and Steve-the-conscientious-mower-of- front-lawns. Hearing his friend talk about it, though, his mental image of that reality darkens, as if it's losing its sheen with every bit of information Steve provides. The vibrance of the suburban houses and gardens suddenly grows bleaker, less saturated. The grass in front of the house with chipped paint is now ochre, no-one's watered it for years. Bucky's afraid of asking the next question, because the answer he wants to hear is not obvious even to him.

'But you did, right? After a while? The nightmares stopped?'

'They dwindled,' Steve shrugs. 'When there was nothing more I could do. Old age will do that to you. Everything somehow becomes...less.'

What does it mean for Steve now, for last night – which Bucky could hardly imagine being _more?_

'I'm sorry,' he finally says, meaning it.

He can remember his time in Romania – the excruciating guilt after he’d left Steve on the bank of the river – afraid to hurt him, afraid to _know_ him. How he’d feared to close his eyes because he knew what was waiting on the other side of wakefulness: screams, voices pleading for their lives or just their mothers to be there; faces caked in mud, blood and snow; hands pushing him away as their pressure on his chest lessened with each passing second until they finally fell to the sides of the lifeless bodies. Steve’s pupils, dilated from their fight, almost completely hidden under the blooming flesh around them. I did that, he knew each time – for each face. _Now_ _I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds_. An archetype, not a real person.

What Bucky also remembers is how he’d helped himself in those first years of letting go of the Winter Soldier: plums every Wednesday from Liviu, home-made bryndza from Oana on the weekends followed by a stroll up from the market to Herăstrău lake to watch young families play with their children and old couples hold hands on the benches in the park. Micro doses of vicarious normalcy, dulling the edges of the killer inside him and letting Bucky Barnes shine through. Bucky Barnes, who had barely existed while the Winter Soldier did the things he did, and he’d still felt guilty. Steve, on the other hand, had been himself completely in the war with Thanos: he’d made the decisions which guaranteed their final victory, yes, but also those which had lead up to the in-between defeat. For a man who’d always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders – even when those shoulders were half the width they are now – his reactions are, finally, understandable to Bucky. It's painfully like the Steve he remembers to go decades berating himself for a set of circumstances nobody could've seen in advance, or prevented. If he knows anything, Bucky knows Steve had done his best, which is the best of what anyone else could've achieved.

'Maybe you could lay off the missions for a while? Sam's gonna get better in no time, until then I can pick up some slack.'

'And do what,' Steve huffs. 'Sit here while you're out there again, while Wanda's out there? Twiddle my thumbs?'

'I don't know, Steve,' Bucky's tone betrays his exasperation. 'There's plenty _other_ you can do to help that doesn't involve dealing with all this crap at the same time as you're out in the field getting shot at.'

'Collecting scrap metal,' Steve jokes. 'I think I'll survive, Buck.'

His smile is nowhere near as reassuring as he intends it to be.

'Now, about the _other_ it...' Steve gets visibly more uncomfortable – which can only mean he's preparing to talk about the kiss.

Bucky's aware it needs to be addressed, having started the conversation himself, but he wishes they wouldn't – not yet. He suddenly wants to stay in the afterglow of ignorance for at least another day, to make believe what happened wasn't out of some misguided attempt of Steve's to anchor himself in this reality once he'd felt himself slipping. He wants to pretend it was more than comfort, more than Steve's knee-jerk reaction caused by the first signs of an oncoming storm.

'I know,' he tries to pre-empt Steve's admission of ever-more-guilt.

'I don't think you do, that's just it.'

'Surprise me then, Rogers,' Bucky sighs, reverting quickly to his snarky nonchalant persona, a caricature version of Bucky Barnes, the scrappy player, from his early memories.

'I wanted to apologize,' his friend begins awkwardly, and yes – here we go – this is exactly what Bucky knew he'd say. 'You asked me for space to find your footing in all of this, and what I did – it's literally the opposite. It crossed a line, _I_ crossed a line I shouldn't have, I should've respected your wishes.'

Interestingly, Steve doesn't end with an excuse or a reasonable justification for the _why_ of it. He also completely disregards the fact that Bucky had, in fact, kissed him back. Both are surprising. Bucky explores his emotional landscape for any traces of the betrayal of his wishes that Steve's referring to, but he can't find any. What does it say about him, that the thought hadn't crossed his mind? How quick he was to forget his decision to regain a sense of personal autonomy with Steve's face an inch away from him own? He knows he should probably tell Steve not to worry about the imagined offense – that he'd enjoyed the impulsive decision and had thought about doing the same himself – but he can't afford the same kind of honesty, lest the soft carpet of ambiguity be pulled from under his feet.

'Wanna compare notes,' he jokes. Steve rolls his eyes.

' _Seriously_.'

*

They've barely had time to finish their conversation – one of them, at least – and are preparing tea in the kitchen when Bucky's phone rings. He checks caller ID and sighs, picking up at once and putting it on speaker.

'I wish I didn't have to do this in case you had more sight-seeing planned for today boys, but we've gotten a lead for another Souls hub. We'll need you in the field this evening, if possible. We want to act quickly on this.'

Sharon, to her credit, does sounds apologetic. Steve can guess it's more on Bucky's account than his, but he appreciates it nevertheless. When he looks up, Bucky nods.

'We'll make it, Sharon. Send us the details.'

'Good. I've already scheduled a jet for pick up, regular rendezvous location, 8:30 AM sharp. Which means you have, ah, twenty-three minutes to get there.'

'Jeez, thanks for allowing me the time to powder my nose,' Bucky deadpans.

'You've got perfect skin, Barnes, don't think I haven't noticed.'

'I love you too, Agent 13.'

Both giggle in a disturbingly school-girl fashion, which makes Steve oddly resentful. Is it because Bucky seemingly finds it so easy to joke with an ex of his, however short-lived their doomed relationship had been? Or could he possibly be _jealous_ of Sharon? After all, he can't remember the last – or any – time he'd made Bucky _giggle_. The mere speculation about the latter is too ridiculous to contemplate.

'Alright, if you're both done here, we'd better get going if we wanna make the flight.'

'Spoilsport,' Bucky admonishes him with a worrying 'aham' sound of agreement from the phone.

As they shove their uniforms and tac gear into the duffle bags, Steve thinks how there never seems to be enough time. Yesterday notwithstanding, bad things always find a way to snake in-between Bucky and him just as they're about to get somewhere, reach some sort of understanding. It's the other guy, he thinks, who's to blame. There's never enough time for Steve Rogers when he's Captain America. He shoves his uniform with more force than necessary into the duffle.

Bucky stares at him apprehensively. Once they're on the jet, he sits next to him instead of his usual spot in the opposite seat.

'You okay for this?'

Steve realizes, to his chagrin, it's so the other agents don't hear them.

'I'm fine,' he elbows Buck in the side and winks. His friend is less than convinced, but returns the gesture all the same.

The reality of what happened last night is slowly settling on Steve: the changes in his attitude are difficult to ignore. Like now, the excitement he felt that Buck had chosen to sit next to him, relishing in their physical contact. He'd been so wrapped up in the mythology surrounding the 'extra' day, that it had tricked him into believing every day _could_ be like yesterday, that nothing apart from their new life mattered. _This_ life, where Steve is still young, living with Bucky, where there are no terrorists or politicians actively working against half the world's population. But it isn't something that can remain cocooned in the half-life, buried under the rubble of what came later.

He'd tried talking about it in the morning, or at least – he'd tried to give Bucky a chance to say something. Sitting beside the man now, it's clear to Steve how pitiful the attempt had been. In the heat of the moment, he'd thought he was protecting Bucky – graciously allowing him the time to figure out how he wanted to take it from here. But he'd simply surrendered to the old instinct of shooting the ball to the other's court, hadn't he? He'll try again as soon as they're done with the mission, Steve decides. And he'll be fully honest with Buck this time around.

*

It starts like it always does: with a step in the wrong direction. A shooter in one’s dead angle. An angry scream, a yelled-out warning. A slow-motion movement in which your brain is going a hundred miles per hour while the rest of your body struggles against reason to catch up. Inevitably: it starts with _him_. Bucky yells – it’s not his name, though Steve knows it’s directed _at_ him – before he can turn his head in the direction of the noise, he feels a weight press him down into the ground, followed by an ominous thud which sucks in all other sounds, a vacuum in the middle of a battle. It ends like it always does: in silence.

Wanda is talking at him as he runs across the deserted junkyard, ice crackling under his boots, the mass of two large bodies become one pushing the soles of his feet into the soft earth underneath. Steve’s mind can’t begin to parse her words, the only thing he knows is he needs to reach the jet as soon as possible, get out of this place and back to New York, _as soon as possible_ , though the idea of sitting and waiting for landing is inconceivable. He wonders whether it would be faster if he just ran the whole way, to give himself something to do; to know he’s doing something. With each stride, he repeats the same useless mantra he’d taught himself in the past when the nightmares had threatened to become unmanageable: _You can wake up now, it’s alright, it’s just a dream, you can wake up now_.

Only it isn’t alright, and it isn’t a dream this time – because his dreams are never about new things, they’re exclusively rehashed hurts. This… this is a brand-new, raw gash across the middle of his soul, and not even his own mind would be cruel enough to concoct it. _Wake up, wake up, it’s alright. You can wake up now_. The mantra persists, but it isn’t directed towards him anymore. _Wake up, Bucky_ , Steve pleads with his fingers digging into the flesh of the body in his arms, bringing it closer to his own. _Wake up_.

*

Sunlight hits his face from an odd angle, warming the left side of his face and trickling warmth in odd sequences across his arm. Bucky stirs right away, aware he isn't waking up in the apartment he shares with Steve. The medicinal air further confirms this fear: even though their home is clean, living in an old building always comes with the unique scent of dust hiding among molecules of everything you see: cemented in walls, between the springs and sponges of the furniture, inside its history: all the the nooks and crannies where the vacuum doesn't reach.

He squints toward the source of the light, finding himself in a bright white room with the blinds half-opened. It takes him a minute to remember the last thing that happened to land him in what is obviously a hospital. They'd been on a mission in some junkyard out in Jersey, supposedly a small center of operations for the Souls. _Small_ turned out to be a very relative term. Steve had taken the lead, with Bucky close behind, casing the perimeter. Just as Steve had taken a step forward to shuffle toward the next skeleton of a rusty SUV for cover, Bucky had caught the glint of a watch from the corner of his eye: a man huddled in the back of a red truck on their 1 o'clock, with a clear shot of Steve. He'd yelled at Steve to duck while jumping and throwing himself over Steve's body on the side of the shooter.

The pain he feels in his lower abdomen as he tries to move fills him in on the rest. Just as he turns his head to inspect the room, wondering why Steve isn't there and starting to entertain worst-case scenarios, the door of the room creaks open. Steve looks as gaunt as Bucky's ever seen him, holding a large paper cup of what turns out to be coffee when he realizes Bucky is awake and spills half of its contents on the floor rushing to his side.

'Buck! How are you?'

'Better than the other guy, if I had to guess.'

'Damn right,' Steve nods, a flash of primal aggression molding his features into an archetypal warrior mask – which instantly turns into the very definition of _soft_ when he takes Bucky's hand in his own.

'Does it hurt?'

'Survived worse.'

'I'm _so_ sorry. You've gotta be tired of hearing that from me, pal, but I am.'

'It wasn't your fault,' Bucky fudges. It was a lucky coincidence he'd noticed the shooter when he did, in all truth, Steve couldn't have seen him from where he was. He also should've known better than to rush ahead without covering all his bases, however. Steve likely knows this already, so Bucky doesn't push the issue. After all, he was the one who decided to play a hero and jump in front of the bullet – it likely wouldn't have made as much damage to Steve, judging by the location of his wound.

'We get anything,' Bucky asks before Steve can fight him on his previous statement.

'Yeah,' he smiles. 'The agents found a bunch of diagrams on the computers that we haven't seen before. Seems like we hit 'em too fast to erase everything from the system. Bruce's working on figuring them out.'

'Good,' Bucky tries to shift a bit further up on the bed. Steve jumps at once to arrange the pillows underneath so he doesn't put unnecessary strain on his muscles. 'Worth it, then.'

Steve doesn't respond to the comment, looking out of the blinds instead into the surprisingly blue sky. There's something else – something more than worry for Bucky – he's trying to figure out. Buck decides to let it rest until Steve's ready to talk about it himself (and he isn't wearing a hospital gown with nothing underneath).

'Hey, Steve,' he breathes out, slightly out of air from changing positions.

'Hmm? Need something?'

'Can you take me home? To the grey room in our grey apartment? All this white is giving me a headache.'

For the first time since he came in, Steve's eyes sparkle with excitement and his mouth extends into a wide grin.

'I have to talk to the doctors first,' he cautions, as if speaking more to himself than to Bucky. 'But yeah, I think we can manage that. Just give it a day or so, alright?'

'Sure thing, pal.'

Bucky extends the fingers of his flesh hand on the too-white sheet and Steve picks up the hint, intertwines Bucky's fingers with his own. He recounts the main beats of the Jersey operation in bullet-points, as if he hadn't been there for most of it himself. It's more no-good-news, as usual, but the information they managed to gather sounds promising. Diagrams, Bucky thinks. Whatever could they represent? As he flips through the pages of what he's gotten to calling his Winter Soldier archive – recollections of Hydra's attempts at subterfuge – for any use of diagrams Bruce might not think of himself – his eyelids droop and all thoughts of terrorists and murder are replaced by the burning sensation of Steve's skin wrapped around his hand.

*

While Bucky's being examined by the doctor before their trip to Budapest, Steve makes his way down the hall to visit Sam again. He'd helped him in a way that can't be overstated when they first brought Bucky in, and nobody seemed willing to communicate any information to him: Sam had worked his practical, common-sense magic, reminding him he himself had survived a much worse incident, even without any iteration of the super-soldier serum Bucky and him had gotten.

'He'll be right as rain. Right- _er_ , even.'

This caused not a little shame in Steve: being reminded Sam had been hurt as well, is still in the hospital recovering, meanwhile also having to console Steve on account of yet another friend being caught in his cross-fire.

'I know _exactly_ what you're thinking,' Sam had laughed, 'it makes me sad how predictable you are, truly.'

'You're the second person to say that lately.'

Sam had raised his eyebrows, but otherwise didn't inquire about this other person. He probably knew.

'It's good to see you, man. Even if you're all shiny and new, and that'll take some getting used to, but.. it's good to see you.'

'Well, don't go getting _too_ used to it. It's a temporary thing, until you can get your ass back out there.'

'Oooff, Goldie uses a bad word! Can I get this on the record, Captain Rogers?'

'Shut it, Captain Wilson.'

'It appears we have reached an impasse, folks,' Sam had announced to the invisible audience in the room, which was significantly homier than Bucky's: chock-full of get-well cards, flowers, board games and other reminders Sam had a family who cared about him just as much as Steve.

'Seriously, though, you really plan on.. reverting? To _Goldie_ -Goldie?' 

Something in Sam's tone had made Steve hesitate in speaking the words aloud, even if the answer to the question was automatic.

'It was only meant as a way to prevent people from losing their faith in Captain America,' he'd shrugged. ' _You're_ Captain America now. Once you're better, there's no need for me to remain in the fight.'

'And there's nothing else _you_ wanna do? With this strapping body?'

Steve had left the question hanging in the air, diverting the conversation to Mrs. Wilson's visits and Sam's nieces – a sure way to get him ranting for hours. As he walks to the room now, he wonders whether it would be good to actually tell Sam about what happened between Buck and him, to ask for some friendly advice. Though Sam has become Bucky's friend as well, Steve's certain he can count on his discretion. Having nearly made his mind up to broach the topic, his plan goes out the window when he enters the room to see Pepper sitting on the other side of Sam's bed, apparently discussing something important judging by her nervous gesturing.

'Steve!'

She nearly knocks over the chair when she stands up to greet him. Steve notices the contrast in her countenance from the last time he'd seen her in the flesh, just after New Year's attack. The sharp angles are back – so is the tight bun and the dark blue sheath dress with no wrinkle even on the atomic scale.

'Pepper, what a surprise.'

Steve glances over her shoulder at Sam while they hug, because seemingly this is what they do now, and his friend replies with an apprehensive shrug.

'We've just been talking about you.'

' _She's_ just been talking about you,' Sam corrects. This doesn't bode well, Steve thinks, and in a minute he's proven right.

'You want me to do _what, now_?'

Pepper flinches at his tone – it's one he's never used with her before, or any of his friends, to be honest – but her proposal is so outrageous, he can't contain it. Sam is giving Pepper the eye in an obvious 'I told you so' manner.

'Listen, I know it sounds like I'm out of my mind, but there really are no guidelines anymore. You could do it. And I bet it'd work.'

'What... Pepper, this is the worst idea I've ever heard. It could backfire in _so_ many different ways. I can't begin to form a single argument against it, because _all_ arguments are against it.'

'Steve.. I'm not asking you to say yes now, I know it's a lot. I'm just asking you – _no_ , pleading with you – to _think_ about it. I want – I _need_ – a better world than this for Morgan. For Tony, for all we've sacrificed. This.. this world, it's an insult to their memories.'

'Maybe _you_ should do it then. Why not _you_?'

'Because people don't know me, or if they do – they hate me enough as it is. A woman – a _widow_ – running a science corporation _and_ a superhero task force at the same time. A former assistant, a glorified secretary? Are you really not aware of how that would play out?'

'To be fair, it's not like they know Steve Rogers. All they know is Captain America,' Sam counters until Steve is done fuming and can form a simple sentence to reply.

'But they could,' Pepper continues, looking straight at Steve. 'You could _let them_. And I can guarantee, you'd be surprised by how many would like what they see. It can hardly get _worse_.'

'Thanks for that vote of confidence,' Steve finally finds his voice, even if it's the sarcastic one he rarely uses.

'You know what I mean,' she quips, undeterred. 'Steve, tell me you'll think about this.'

He doesn't say yes or no, just stares through the blinds where lines of the blue sky tempt him with the promise of flight. _Were I a bird_ , Steve remembers a poem Gabe had once recited to the Commandos, _through air I'd roam, just flitting through the morning breeze, in search of summer's sunny dome, to live contentedly at ease_.

Sam answers in his stead, again.

'Steve gives you his solemn promise he'll not forget this conversation anytime soon, Pepper,' he sing-songs. ' _Now_ , can I have some quality time with my mate? We need to discuss cars and burgers and guns, you know, _guy_ stuff.'

Though the sarcasm is apparent, Pepper still gives Sam _a_ look before she shuffles out of the room.

'Take care, Sam, Steve,' she says as she makes her exit.

'What the Hell was that,' Steve asks as soon as she's out of earshot.

Sam looks slightly apologetic.

'It might've been me.' Steve glares at him. 'Like – I told her you didn't feel right with the Cap gig anymore, and that maybe she should give you some time. Or just, let it go, you know – till I'm better. Till _Barnes_ is better.'

'Sam –I _said_ I'd fill in for you, there's no need –'

'But that's just it. You're _filling_ _in_. You shouldn't have to do that. Your heart's not in it anymore, and I _get it_ – neither was mine, till I met you. It's okay if you wanna rest now, my friend.'

'I don't – I – I don't think I _can_ , with everyone else out there.. I thought I'd be able to, but Sam, these terrorists...'

'There's always gonna be more terrorists, man,' Sam says in his matter-of-fact voice. 'And there's always gonna be people to fight 'em. Like there were before you got out of the ice, like there will be after you die. You don't owe the world a damned thing, Steve, you _never_ did.'

Their conversation veers off to other topics, only some of them to do with cars – courtesy of the new Concept Three electric car from the Rimac factory, which Sam swears is just as 'smart' as one of Tony's suits. Steve finds this hard to believe, but has to admit the machine is a mighty sight to behold.

'I know what you're getting you for your birthday,' he pats Sam on the shoulder, who stares him out of the room, unblinking.

'You can't just say that and not follow through.. Steve!'

'See you soon, Sam.'

'I better see that car in three months' time – or you'll never see _me_ again, do you hear? Steve! _Steve_!'

*

Steve's mood exponentially improves once they're back in Budapest. Bucky gives most of the credit to Éva, who visits religiously to take her coffee with them – in Bucky's room where Steve's brought a small, red nightstand to double as a coffee table and pulled in extra chairs from the dining room. The set-up is cozy, if somewhat packed, and Bucky appreciates Éva's self-control in not smoking in the small space as she usually would during their morning rituals.

More importantly, she often visits in the afternoons as well, bringing home-cooked dinners, likely prompted by the time Steve asked her to share a meal he'd prepared. She'd had enough grace not to say anything at the time, but the frequency of her visits and 'leftovers' has made Bucky certain she shares the same disdain for Steve's interpretations of stews.

To Bucky's slight disappointment, Steve doesn't go back to sleeping in his room, but he does let himself touch Bucky more often – small, casual pats on the back or brushes against his cheek which are beginning to feel strangely _normal_ , despite the fact they haven't talked about the kiss after the mission and Bucky's injury. It almost feels like re-learning each other, one inch of skin at a time, and Bucky is finally appreciative of the space Steve has let him reclaim.

What amazes him the most is that the incident hasn't lead to Steve shutting himself off completely, which would've been in character. He's actually done the opposite. In the week they've spent in their apartment, Steve has talked to Bucky every time he's had a nightmare – never going into much detail, but Bucky figures it's the thought that counts. He's bought and assembled the red nightstand so Bucky could receive guests without moving around. Apart from Éva's daily visits, Sharon also came to see him, unexpectedly, when following up on the Jersey leads which took her to the ECU secret service in Vienna. Other small ways in which Steve has been trying to do better include mentioning random details of his life in the other timeline unprompted and buying an offensively vintage bedcover during one of his trips to the farmers' market.

'What in the Lords's name is this, Rogers,' Bucky moans examining the midnight-blue plush monstrosity with stars and what are meant to be constellations embroidered with gold thread. It looks like one of Éva's more questionable fashion choices.

'I _liked_ it,' Steve tries to defend the purchase, to no avail. 'It reminded me of those patchwork quilts we always saw in the windows of Mrs. Ford's shop.'

'That was a _century_ ago,' Bucky replies, straightening the quilt out on the bed and running his hand against the embroidery in disbelief. 'They have weighted blankets and silk bedding now. _That we can afford_.'

'Is that the horoscope constellations,' Éva giggles, amused by the domestic squabble, intentionally adding fuel to its fire.

' _You two_ , I swear..'

Steve moves toward the bed to wrench the offensive item from Bucky, who clutches it tightly.

'I thought you didn't like it?'

'That doesn't mean I don't _want_ it, though. Don't have anything better yet.'

Steve shakes his head in mock disbelief, then sits on the edge of the bed.

'When I saw it, I thought it kinda looked like us, in a way?'

Éva excuses herself to go for a smoke, the old fox.

'Explain,' Bucky states once she's a safe distance away.

'The idea was that.. well, we're patchwork people? It's something to remind us of our stitches.'

Bucky stares at Steve for a long while, then groans. The alternative he'd been thinking about was pulling him by his shirt and kissing him senseless.

'Yeah yeah,' Steve surrenders, going to the kitchen. 'Old age made Goldie sentimental. Boo-hoo, Barnes, you've gotta live with it.'

Bucky chuckles quietly in the room and runs his fingers across the embroidery. The odd golden shapes spring to life as he touches them, and form a clear three-dimensional model of a night sky. _Steve bought us a Universe_ , he thinks whimsically before the meds kick in and send him to sleep.

*

In the afternoon, Steve's sifting through his long list of poems to find something Bucky might appreciate when he hears commotion coming from the direction of Éva's door. Two young women are laughing and talking animatedly with her as three men cart large boxes filled with books and various knick-knacks from her apartment and out of the building. Steve gets up and waves at Éva from across the courtyard, at which she extends her arms and ushers her young friends to his door. This had not been his plan.

'István,' she begins, giving the girls the (wrong) impression that he is or at least speaks Hungarian. 'These are my two friends from ECUnity, a local organization helping the Returned. This is Ági, and Réka.'

'Hello,' Réka waves to Steve even though she's less then a couple of inches away. Her friend blushes beetroot red and doesn't manage to get a word out.

'It's very nice to meet you,' Steve replies, looking at the both of them. 'I've read a bit about your work, it's truly something.'

'Thanks so much! If you ever want to get – erm, involved – you ask Mrs. Csillag. She knows all.'

'Oh,' Steve cocks his eyebrow. 'Mrs. Csillag is also involved?'

Réka's already pale face turns even whiter, and she steals a glance at Éva to try and gauge the severity of presenting Steve with this information.

'Of course,' Éva laughs. 'I help with the mental health leaflets, and so.'

'Do you now,' Steve smiles. 'Perhaps you should've told us too, we'd love to help.'

'Yes,' Ági almost shrieks, joining the conversation. 'Your body – we use, in the center. We _can_ use.'

'I'll keep that in mind,' Steve replies and winks at both of the girls, reserving his we-need-to-talk look for Éva. Once they're gone, she stares back with her what-of-it expression.

'You told me, my dear, you were done fighting,' she shrugs.

'Well, maybe that's not exactly true.'

Back in the living room, he revisits his conversations with Pepper and Sam, quickly coming to the same verdict as before. Pepper's proposal is insane as such, but more importantly it's not something he's willing to do. But parts of what her, Sam and Bucky have said – all in their wonderfully idiosyncratic ways – are, he decides, still worth exploring. Mainly, the possibility of doing good on his own terms: not 'filling in' or following orders – not giving them, either.

His phone rings while he contemplates asking Éva about ECUnity, and what kind of ways he could even contribute in. It's Bruce.

'Hey, Bruce,' Steve says as the holo boots up. Bruce spares no time on greetings.

'I figured it out,' he exclaims as if he's only now done so, giving Steve two thumbs up in the process.

'The diagrams?'

'Yes! It's _maps_ , Steve. _Actual_ maps of different –very obscure – pipelines. Filtration systems. That's why it took me so long to find the connections, you see – I was working off the assumption all the diagrams were on the same scale, but they aren't. A tweak here, a cut there, and voilà! Countries, urban areas, little villages across the globe. All connected to the water supply!'

Even if he often finds it difficult to understand Bruce's science-speak, this isn't one of those times. Steve is well aware what a bunch of pipeline maps in tandem with substance experimentation on human subjects can amount to.

'Do you think they're trying to make them more aggressive, the people with Capgras?'

'I'm not sure. The correlation is definitely there – the places with the most reported cases of the worst cases of Capgras –murders, assaults, attempted murders – they're in the maps. But I still can't understand _how_ whatever they're doing works, exactly.'

Steve nods, and so does the miniature holo-Steve in the corner of his phone. Big holo-Bruce scratches his head.

'This is already progress,' Steve says. 'Let me know as soon as you've got more.'

'Of course! How's Barnes?'

'Recuperating.'

'Awesome,' Professor Hulk says, both of his green thumbs up again.

Steve can't help but be _a little_ insulted by the vacuous gesture.

'Talk to you soon,' he says and ends the call.

Even if Bruce doesn't have _all_ the answers yet, Steve knows what this breakthrough means: they're finally catching up with the Souls' game. He spares a minute to think about what solving the mystery and stopping whatever the plan is will mean – for the world, for him, for Bucky. For _Bucky and_ _him_ , together. He can't help comparing their tense to-and-fros from before he stepped out of the time machine to the evident progress that's lead them to today: opening up to one another, enjoying the silly moments, having each others' backs in the field.

Perhaps that's the problem, Steve muses. In this body, he'll never have a good enough excuse _not_ to fight. What would it even be? Sam's words echo in his mind. ' _You don't owe the world a damned thing, Steve_.' Doesn't he? Hasn't this world claimed the lives of his friends – sometimes many times over – hasn't it almost always brought them back? Isn't it Steve's responsibility – while he can – to make sure everyone else experiences that same ecstatic relief of a loved one returning from the grave when all hope was thought to be lost? On the other hand, if his performance continues to be as pitiful as last week's when he'd put Bucky in danger (even if Bucky will never admit it), perhaps it would be wiser to quit before he inflicts some lasting damage himself.

 _The people don't know Steve Rogers_ , Sam's voice echoes, followed by Pepper's – _but he could let them_. Some would even like what they see. Steve can't begin to speculate on the truth of Pepper's latter claim, but he wonders whether it even matters, given the truth of her other statement – that things could hardly get worse.

He fills two glasses with orange juice and takes them to Bucky's room. He's sitting up in bed, looking a little dazed, covered with the fancy quilt Steve bought. He smiles when he sees Steve nudge the door open with his hip.

'Got news for me, Stevie? I thought I heard voices just now.'

'Bruce figured out the diagrams. Pipelines of different cities across the world,' he starts. Bucky looks at him expectantly, sensing there's something else coming by Steve's inflection. 'Oh, and Pepper asked me to run for president.'

*

'You've gotta be shitting me.'

Bucky's sure he heard Steve just fine, but his brain can't compute the statement in its usual quick fashion. He scoots up on the bed and tries to cross his legs underneath not to slide down the pillows as Steve deposits the two glasses of orange juice on the makeshift table.

'No _fucking_ way,' he decides before Steve can get another word in.

'I know it's not.. expected, but I could really do some good – not fighting, but speaking up.'

'Do you not remember the last time someone promised the same thing? You were stuck doing dance routines and punching fake Hitler every night to fill the government's pockets! And you're just gonna let them use you as their monkey again? Brandt, Philips, Fury... and now Pepper? What, you're gonna be her puppet in the White House? Smiling and flexing your muscles for the crowd while she makes the decisions? That's not the freedom we fought for, Steve.'

'Maybe I _don't_ want to make the decisions anymore. Maybe I _don't_ want to spend the next twenty years – or however long – trading lives and wondering which one of my friends I'll have to sacrifice next.'

'What about making our own decisions, then? Opting out? We can do that. _You_ can do that.'

Bucky's slip of the tongue in saying 'our decisions' takes Steve out of the argument long enough to remember what he'd _actually_ wanted to say instead of bickering about hypotheticals.

'Of course I'm not gonna run for president, _damn_ ,' he laughs. 'It's crazy. But maybe, instead of trying to be Captain America, I can be of some use as Steve Rogers? Do you think _that's_ crazy? Because I really can't tell.'

Bucky softens at once, saddened Steve even has to ask the question.

'Pal, I've had more use of Steve Rogers than I ever had of Cap, since...forever. And I speak from experience, being very intimately acquainted with both.'

Steve gives him a no-you-didn't stare.

'Are you sure?'

'Of course not, that's why I'm listening to your sorry ass,' Steve chuckles. He then pulls his legs up onto the bed and settles on his side inches away from Bucky, their knees and a couple of toes touching in the process.

'I thought.. I _imagined_ everything would be settled, once I came back. And then it wasn't, and I just acted like it was because I didn't make provisions for this set of circumstances. I didn't have a Plan B, I didn't know what else to do. But the world is never finished, and neither are we while we're still living in it, neither am I. I need to do _something_. What I'm beginning to realize is, it can't be the same thing as before. That's _my_ choice. I think so, anyway. Could you get behind me on that, Buck?'

There are multiple trains of thought leaving the very busy platform of Bucky's brain as Steve finishes the mini-speech. One thing he can tell for certain, though.

'I'll be okay whatever you choose, Steve. If it's your choice, I'll be okay with it.'

Bucky leans across the several-inch gap between their bodies and plants a small kiss on top of Steve's head. Steve brings his hand up to touch Bucky's cheek as he does so, eyes closed, a sense of peace melting his features unlike any Bucky's ever seen.

'Thank you for that,' he says as Bucky moves away. It sounds like _more_ – more than thanks for the acknowledgment, more than gratitude for Bucky's unqualified acceptance, more even than the relief a childish peck would bring. More than can fit in a word such as ' _that_ ', or any other word in the English language.

*

Steve surrenders to Bucky's show of affection and lets his head rest against his friend's shoulder. He's become acutely aware that his failings have caused good people – most often his friends, who are dearest to him – to suffer. Because of his indecision. Steve's worst fear has always been losing the people he loves: this is why Thanos won, after all. Because he hadn't been ready to sacrifice Vision, or ask Wanda for something he himself couldn't imagine doing. What he _couldn't_ do. He's still that person, he knows, decades upon decades and he hasn't learned a thing. He'd watch the world perish in flames before knowingly letting go of Bucky a second time.

That's part of what had been so appealing about staying in the past at first – the assumed predictability of it, knowing he could pre-emt catastrophes and never live through another uncertain live-or-die situation again. As it turned out, the one bad thing that had meant the most to him – he couldn't figure out. Losing Bucky had terrified him in the short time they'd spent together after the Blip because he hadn't known what the future had in store. He'd _hoped_ it would be good, that him leaving meant all the other threats – known and unknown – would vanish from Bucky's orbit. What a fool.

'Do you remember Sunday school,' Bucky asks quietly, transporting Steve back to the here and now. The vibrations of his voice travel down Steve's body, huddled against him as he is. They're soothing.

'Hard to forget, with how often we got the stick.'

'True,' Bucky nudges him with his knee. 'I was just thinking about this story, Jesus and the Miracle of the Swine. Remember that one?'

'With the demon and the pigs that run over the cliff into the sea?' Steve asks, confused.

'Yeah… The possessed guy says to Jesus, _My name is Legion, for we are many_ ,' Bucky imitates a demonic voice, which sounds ominously close to Bucky before his morning coffee.

'Rings a bell.'

'When we talked on our way home after that class, you said you felt sorry for the pigs. Why did they have to die? And I laughed at you then, but I thought about it all night long in my room, and I _cried_. You were right, it was such a waste.'

'I'm not sure where you’re going with this, Buck. You wanna be a vegetarian?'

'No. Maybe, I don’t know? That’s not the point.'

'Don’t leave me hangin', Barnes, what _is_ the point?'

'The point is, you've always been a softie. It’s what made you uniquely qualified to be the one who holds the world in their hands. You always try and find a way to save as many people – pigs, too – as you can.'

A large lump settles in Steve's throat, preventing him from speaking. Bucky continues.

‘But there’s something else about that story. I used to think about it a lot, in Romania. How to exorcise the Winter Soldier. Kill that part of myself, kill all parts connected with it, too.’

Steve’s heart breaks for that Bucky, who’d had to find ways to heal on his own, who’d finally settled only to have that life taken away by Zemo in the blink of an eye.

'But I guess at some point, I made my peace with him instead. It’s what helped the most. Compassion. What would Steve Rogers do. Steve Rogers wouldn’t kill that guy, he _didn’t_ when he had the chance.'

'How does it connect to the story, then?'

'We've always been taught to aspire to unity, wholeness, whatever that is. Like being different, having different things inside you is something demonic, something _bad_. I'm not sure I buy that anymore.'

'I'm not sure you bought it then, either,' Steve laughs.

'Probably not. But now I think I know _for sure_. Everyone is Legion. We _all_ contain multitudes, you and me more than most, but… it's not what makes us different. We shouldn't be ashamed of it. If anything, it's what makes us human.'

Steve considers Bucky's words and they ring true. He'd tried, for most of his life, to be one thing or another, with the two often being extremes. Bucky is right, he doesn't have to pick between staying a latently suicidal kamikaze-for-your-country icon or reverting to a man out of time with no connections to this world. He also doesn't have to choose his love for Peggy over what's been steadily growing between Bucky and him, or the other way around. Perhaps the man he is, the man he wants to be, is somewhere in the middle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stanza from the poem Steve recalls Gabe reciting is Edward Smyth Jones' beautiful [Were I A Bird.](https://internetpoem.com/edward-smyth-jones/were-i-a-bird-poem/)
> 
> Other notable references include Robert Oppenheimer's quote about the first detonation of the atomic bomb, taken from the Bhagavad-Gita: 'Now I am become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds.' 
> 
> I'm excited to hear all your thoughts and reactions, as always!


	9. A Real Human Being, A Real Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gives an interview – with more than one statement sparking trending hashtags on Twitter. Goulash is eaten and pálinka is drunk in celebration. Bucky is amused, Éva is delighted, Pepper is dismayed, Sharon is worried. A lot of talking ensues about the kind of image Steve Rogers wants and/or needs to project and what it is he meant when he said his relationship status is 'complicated'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another chapter title stolen from a song, well, a cover of a song – [Alt-J's A Real Hero.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ORxbHCajHto)
> 
> Content warnings.. there aren't any I can think of, apart from mentions of war and chronic indecision, and strong language.

**NYT** **Exclusive: Steve Rogers speaks out!**

Behind the Shield: A Man For The Twenty-First Century

March 25 2024

By: Anne Mitchell

When I received the call from Avengers HQ about an exclusive interview with Captain Steve Rogers, the 'OG' Captain America as he's often been referred to after his long-time companion and brother-in-arms Sam Wilson took over the shield, I honestly thought I was being pranked. Despite his ubiquitous media presence during WWII and his involvement in more recent events, starting with the alien invasion of NYC in 2012, I couldn't find _one_ interview with the man himself after 1941 – and even that, an obvious marketing ploy to sell government bonds.

After talking to Captain Rogers over Zoom to make sure my colleagues weren't playing a long-con on me, I dived head-first into research to find that, in deed, the man himself had never answered any questions not previously vetted by the US government, SHIELD, the Avengers Initiative or any other organization he's worked for. The privilege of being afforded such access ahead of me, I did what any journalist would do. I curled up on my sofa and cried, out of joy or terror – I'm still not sure. It is with not a little relief that I can now report my fear was utterly misplaced.

Rogers kindly agreed to meet me in a diner two blocks from my place of residence. The good Captain came right on time, sporting an unassuming grey sweater and jeans, with a simple black leather jacket to finish the casual, if somewhat rebellious look. When I asked him about the styling, his eyes sparkled with obvious mischief. 'I was told the uniform would stand out in this context,' he told me. 'And the coat I have apparently makes me look stuffy.' I complimented whoever had come up with the ensemble – which seemed to sit well with Rogers. 'I'm sure I'll never hear the end of it.'

After the perfunctory niceties, I asked whether he was ready to start the interview, to which he modestly replied 'As ready as I'll ever be.' I offer the full transcript of our conversation below, which I found to be refreshingly honest, demanding little to no journalistic interpretation or editing. I'd like to honor Rogers' request for transparency and extend him the courtesy of letting his words speak for themselves, for the first time ever.

AM: When your people called my people to suggest this interview, I thought it must've been a hoax. [Rogers laughs] I suppose the first question begs itself – Why now? Why me?

SR: I suppose that's fair. The second question is easier to answer, so let me start with that. I've been keeping up with the news after the Blip, and I read some of your articles – I believe they paint a true, balanced picture of what's going on in the world right now. At the same time, you don't seem too keen on taking sides, and I wanted to talk to someone I knew would be objective. Not sugar-coat things if I make a blunder, but also not try and find needles in the haystack to turn my words into something they're not.

AM: That's high praise in this day and age. I wouldn't live up to the reputation if I didn't push for an answer to the first question then?

SR: Why now? Ooff, I thought that'd be clear, to be honest. Because we're at a juncture unlike we've ever seen. I don't think fighting alone will do the trick this time around, so I wanted to make sure I did all I can to help.

AM: It's interesting you mention fighting. After the Blip, you seemed to have resigned – we didn't hear from you or see you for a couple of months, until Sam Wilson was injured in the New Year's attack on Heroes' Hall – I hope he's doing better now, by the way. Can you tell us more about your decision to step down?

SR: Yes.. Sam's recovering nicely now, it was touch and go there for a minute, but we're all happy – me especially – that he's pulled through. As far as me stepping down goes.. I guess I could make up plenty reasons which would seem justified to you or the public, but I don't want to do that, I wanna be honest. And the truth of the matter is, I was tired. Those five years we lived in the world after the Snap – they took their toll on everyone. I suppose I wasn't any different. I needed a break.

AM: Would it be prying if I asked what you were doing during this 'vacation'?

SR: I understand people are curious about it. What can I say? I was breathing in the fresh air, trying to build a life from the wreckage that was left behind. Reconnecting with loved ones – that sort of thing. It was all very normal and boring, I have to disappoint you.

AM: That isn't disappointing at all. If anything, I think our readers would love to know what Steve Rogers, the OG Captain America, does in his spare time.

SR [chuckles shyly]: What everyone else does? I don't know... I have coffee every morning with a very shrewd friend who keeps me on my toes. I walk a lot. Follow the news. Read poetry.

AM: Poetry?

SR: Yeah, I guess that's an exclusive for you right there. Steve Rogers, poetry aficionado.

AM: You'd call yourself an aficionado?

SR: I suppose the definition fits. I definitely wouldn't say I'm an expert.

AM: Could you tell us about your favorites?

SR: There are too many to name, off the top of my head. But not to leave you high and dry, the last I've read was Alex Dimitrov's work. It strikes a chord.

AM: Dimitrov? That's certainly interesting. Much more contemporary than I would've guessed.

SR: Because I'm such an oldie? [awkward laugh] No, no, I mean – I've lived in this century for a while now. I can appreciate progress.

AM: In terms of LGBTQ+ rights?

SR: Of course. I've always thought of Captain America as standing for every group that's disenfranchised, for the small citizen.

AM: Are you sure that's how your superiors saw him? Because some could argue – _have_ argued, in fact – the Captain was used to further harmful stereotypes about masculinity and conservatism. At least until your break with the UN on the Sokovia Accords, though that fed into conspiracy theories in far-right circles in its own right.

SR [sighs]: You know, what others did with the idea when I went into the ice – I can't answer for them. What I can say is that, for me, for Steve Rogers – this is it. I spent a good chunk of my life as someone who didn't conform to the ideals you mention, I still don't. I believe in equality, in compassion, in understanding. You can color that anyway you want, the message is the same.

AM: That's fair. Would you care to elaborate, however – on your break with the Avengers and Tony Stark? While preparing for this interview, I realized you've been much more rebellious than I first recalled – it's so easy to forget you became a controversial figure after dismantling SHIELD and going against the government on the Accords.

SR: The break was never with _Tony_ , on my side at least. After Hydra's infiltration of SHIELD came to light – you could say that last bit of hope I had in big organizations doing the right thing was lost. I told Tony as much – that my faith lies with individuals. The Accords – it just wasn't my cup of tea. I understand why it happened, why it needed to happen, but at the time – I couldn't go along with it.

AM: Speaking of individuals – can you share your thoughts about the current presidential candidates? Given the rules, or lack thereof, now - it's not too late in the race for others to join, but we know who the two main contenders are, at least. You have an opinion?

SR: I do, yes. It's an opinion that's closely related to what I was saying before. Listen – anyone who questions or keeps company with those who question an entire group's right to exist? Those who'd play pool with these poor people like you can just shuffle them from one country to the next? I'll pass, thanks.

AM: Do I take it to mean you wouldn't be happy if Cassandra Bellock won the election? Especially given what she's said about you and the Avengers Initiative?

SR: That's exactly what I mean. And it has nothing to do with what she's said about me personally, or even my friends – though that hits harder, you understand, because some of them aren't here to defend themselves. But all that aside, Cassandra Bellock stands for everything I find most hateful in politics. The double-speak, the innuendo, the us-against-them mentality. Turning people against their loved ones, their families? It's not right.

AM: Do you like Rick Jones?

SR [after a long sigh]: I like that he isn't trying to start another civil war. I like he stands for everyone, Returned or not. Do I like him as a person? I don't know, I've never met him.

AM: That doesn't sound like an endorsement.

SR: I'm not here to endorse anyone. But if you asked me to choose, I'd choose him.

AM: The lesser of two evils?

SR: I wouldn't go that far.

AM: If you could tell one thing to US citizens, what would it be?

SR: Thanks for asking that, Anne. When I decided to speak publicly, it was mostly for this reason. For whoever wants to know where I stand – not Captain America, but Steven Rogers. I've had a lot of time to think about what makes the 'America' part special. You get a name, you don a uniform – you don't question it as a young man. But there comes a point in your life where you have to. What I've found is the following – nothing makes us special. America isn't special, not more or less than any other country you can hit with your finger when you close your eyes and spin a globe. We've had a tough history, we did a lot of bad things – we also did a lot of other things right. I'm not sure our virtues cover for our flaws, or the other way around. They're both what we have to learn to live with, like we have to live with each other. There's a lot to be said about trauma – what we've lived through in the last five-six years, it's a lot. I can understand people being overwhelmed – why they've made their home in that aftershock of pain, why they don't want to hope anymore or start things over. They did that once – and believe it or not, I understand the instinct to bury yourself in the certainty of half-defeat, because fighting _is_ hard. Victory isn't guaranteed. The thing is – even when we think we're lying still, the world's still moving around us, beneath us. It's an illusion, to think we can _make_ things stay the same. A good friend of mine taught me that – the human condition is the antithesis of inertia. She explains it much better than I can, but that's the gist – even when things are good, we need to move. Things aren't good in the US at the moment. So I'd like to tell my fellow citizens what my friend told me when I needed to hear it the most: _move_. Let go of the false comfort of peace, because it can't be peace until it's for everyone. To remember their neighbors, friends, loved ones – the world as it was. It's a world we can rebuild now, and what's more – we can do it better. There's no going back, I know that. But sometimes the way forward is even more beautiful. If only we get off our collective – khm, er, behinds – and _start moving_.

AM: Thank you so much for that, Captain Rogers. I think we've already gone over our time limit, but I wanted to ask you just one other question, if I may?

SR: Of course, I might've gotten carried away there, I apologize.

AM: Oh no, that was a wonderful message to send. But for something completely different, which will probably sound ridiculous as a follow up – given that we've heard so little from you in what's basically a century, I know our readers are probably going to be curious about your love life. [Author's note: I was mortified to ask this question on the back of the very relevant political message Captain Rogers had sent, but I likely would've been out of a job now if I hadn't.] Relationship status – single, taken, it's complicated?

SR: Well, that's certainly an abrupt change in tone. [laughs nervously] I guess I'd have to say.. it's complicated? The definitions escape me.

AM: 'It's complicated' is often taken to mean there's someone you've been seeing, but you've had a fight.

SR: Oh, no, it's not that.

AM: Is it just that you prefer not to put labels on it?

SR: Let's go with that.

AM: So there _is_ someone?

SR: I thought we were wrapping up.

AM: Right, of course. That concludes our interview. Thank you for offering us a glimpse of your world, and thank you for choosing _me_ as your interlocutor. It's been a rewarding experience.

SR: You're very welcome, Anne. Can we get to eating these pies now, do you think? My ice-cream's become a sauce.

AM: Yes, I think we can do that. They're the best pies in a hundred mile perimeter.

SR: We'll see about that.

We did see about it – and agreed to disagree. While the Captain appreciated the humble offering of my neighborhood diner, he insisted he'd had better pie in Brooklyn as a young man. I am still dubious of the fact anything from the 1930's could surpass the crumbly brilliance that is Joey's Apple Extravaganza, but not being able to test the theory, it's bound to remain one of the world's more important unsolved mysteries.

I also need to add that we stayed on to have a cup of coffee, which gave me a chance to chat about a plethora of different things with OG Cap: enough for the representation of him as Captain America to be totally obliterated by the man I found in his stead. If there was ever a person who embodied the saying 'still waters run deep', it's Steve Rogers. His measured words – even when delivered in bursts of impulsive rambling – are the balm this country needs to survive the upcoming elections. He is thoughtful, open, eloquent, in love with this country in a way that enables him to recognize its failings and imagine its best self. Above all else – Steve Rogers is kind. While he assured me during our informal conversation that he wouldn't be running for President (and gave me permission to quote him on that), I can't help but feel disappointed by the information. We've had inspiring presidents, daring presidents, conniving ones, brave ones, those progressive for their times, those who merely wanted to stroke their egos: and everything in-between. I don't think we've ever had one quite as _kind_. Even if Steve Rogers' name doesn't appear on the ballot, perhaps the time has come for us to consider the trait as a legitimate option.

*

'Do you like it,' Bucky asks after setting the iPad down. Steve shrugs.

'She wrote what I said.'

'Evidently,' Bucky chuckles.

'What? Got something to say, Barnes?'

' _It's_ _complicated_?'

Bucky can't hide his grin while Steve blushes and turns his head away, suddenly finding the goulash pot infinitely more interesting.

'You know damn well what I was referring to.'

Bucky can guess, but it amuses him to play coy. The fact that their kiss-followed-by-a-breakdown even registered as something that complicated Steve Rogers' relationship status is news to him. _Good_ news, if he had to qualify it. He's also relieved to find out why Steve had been acting so cagey since his return from New York – Bucky had feared they were slipping back into their old avoidance patterns, but it seems it'd been for fear of Bucky's reaction to the interview.

'I'm afraid I have no clue,' he teases and tries to put as much humor as he can into it. Steve needs to get it through his thick skull his intention goes in the direction of flirting, not denial.

'Then I guess you'll stay clueless,' Steve smiles back, though still reluctant to make eye-contact. It makes it seem like he's smiling at the goulash, and Bucky's certain there'll be little to warrant that particular reaction.

'Come here,' he beckons him to the couch. Steve rolls his eyes but complies, sitting at Bucky's feet. 'It's gonna be alright. Everyone will hit it off and the whole thing will go swimmingly.'

'That's not what I'm worried about,' Steve admits.

'If you're talking about your newfound fame as Steve Rogers, I think that's gonna be alright, too. You did real good, Stevie. _Honest_.'

'Do you –' Steve stutters, obviously unsure how to broach the topic. Bucky can guess which one it is. 'What I said, it's complicated. Joking aside, I just wanted to make sure –'

The front door swings open, the rustling unmistakably announcing Éva clothed in one of her extravagant dresses. Bucky is both relieved and slightly annoyed he won't get to hear what Steve wanted to say. When she enters, hot pink ensemble complete with sequined floral shapes popping out against the muted colors of the living room, Steve moans.

'Really, why do I bother.'

She's got a family-sized pot of what also looks like goulash in her hands.

'I know how much you boys can eat,' Éva lies through her teeth. 'I thought a bit more would not hurt.'

Steve gets up and takes the heavy pot from her, depositing it on the stove next to his own concoction. She follows him, suspicious that he'll try mixing the two or performing some other unholy modification to her original dish.

'What did you think about Steve's interview,' Bucky inquires.

'I thought it was divine,' she brings her hands together as she turns with a swoosh.

'Not too PG,' Steve asks.

'A good _first_ step. The next few, I predict they will be even more difficult.'

'Think he should run for president,' Bucky asks.

'Oh, I think István should do what István _wants_ to do.'

'The buzz is there,' he counters. Steve's shoulders tighten imperceptibly.

'One should never be blindly guided by public opinion, James.'

'I'm just _saying_ ,' he shrugs. 'Seems like Twitter can't get enough of him. Americans for kindness was trending on Twitter. So was it's complicated, but you see what I mean.'

'You're talking about me as if I'm not here,' Steve protests from above his concoction. He seems to be smelling Éva's pot then his own, trying to figure out the difference. Good luck with that, pal, Bucky thinks tenderly.

'We're just admiring your public appeal!'

'Well, _stop_ it. I'm sick of hearing what I said right and what I said wrong and whatever else Pepper's assistants have been emailing me about all morning.'

'It _is_ _complicated_ , no?'

Of course it's Éva who delivers the knock-out punch. Bucky can't stop laughing. Steve throws a wooden ladle in his direction, thankfully he still has the good sense to catch it.

'Rogers, what the Hell!'

'You've had that coming, Barnes.'

Bucky can't disagree. Before he can try to plead his case, however, the doorbell rings. Sam and Wanda shuffle in, Sam immediately going for the armchair and lifting his legs up on the sofa, Wanda making her introductions. As soon as she samples the goulash Éva brought (giving Steve's only a cursory, disdainful glance) – it's obvious they'll be fast friends.

'We would put more cumin in Sokovia, perhaps a couple of chilis too, but otherwise it is the same!'

'Yes, I have tried Sokovian goulash – you like it spicy!'

'We do! But this is heaven, Éva. It has _flavor_.'

The fact she says so while looking over to the pot Steve's in charge of doesn't dampen his spirits.

'We should do a toast,' Éva says, to resounding cheers from the room. 'I believe you still have the pear pálinka we had for Christmas?'

'Yes,' Sam exclaims. 'Gimme that stuff, I've been craving it for months.'

'It is like rakija, no,' Wanda asks.

'Somewhat – but try it and see if you can tell the difference.'

Steve gives everyone a full shot glass and leaves the bottle on the coffee table.

'What do we toast to?'

'Egészségedre,' Sam downs his first glass.

' _Sam,_ ' Steve cautions. 'Patience?'

' _Fine_. Who's making the speech?' Bucky refills his glass.

'I think I will, this once,' Éva says from where she's gone back to stand by the stove.

' _Please_ ,' Steve gestures to the middle of the room, as if it were a podium. The flowers on her dress glimmer like blood as she walks, a warning underneath the new neon lights Steve's purchased.

'Thank you, István,' she nods. 'As some of you know, and others are going to find out now – I am an old woman.' Sam and Wanda, not being as familiar with Éva's particular brand of humor, aren't sure whether to laugh or not. Bucky has no such qualms. 'Be that as it may. I want to toast today to _new friendships_. To the beginning we find hidden, masked in endings. To István and James – I would like to say thank you, my dears, for allowing me into your story this late in the game. There are so many paths you can take in this world from now on, and I hope they run parallel to my own, so we can wave at each other in passing, and I can witness the happiness I wish to the both of you from the bottom of my heart.'

This time, Sam and Wanda are the ones to cheer and laugh, while Steve and Bucky look at each other hesitantly.

'As Sam would say – _e_ _gészségedre_!'

Everyone clinks their glasses with everyone else and the fun starts. Bowls of goulash are handed from Éva through Wanda to their eager recipients, keeping Steve away from the stove not to trick someone into eating from the _wrong_ pot. Bucky observes the scene from the couch, feeling oddly at peace – mostly because Steve, too, seems to be at peace. He shakes his head as Éva adds more spice and salt into his work and brings it to a boil again. He listens to her conversation with Wanda about the resurgence of feminism in Sokovia and the ECU. Sam's flirtatious comments directed at Éva make Steve roll his eyes, but he doesn't butt in to stop him or divert the conversation. He just sits, perfectly content, in a chair at Bucky's feet. It's the look of a person who has their family all in one place after years of absence. Incredibly, Bucky feels the same.

He wants to grab Steve's hand from his lap and squeeze it tightly, to say something sappy and Steve-like, such as: 'We've built a home without even meaning to. For ourselves, but for these other people, too.' Steve turns to look at him, and seems to read the emotion from merely a glance. He taps his hand against Bucky's foot a couple of times and leaves it there. Bucky sees the amused look that passes between Wanda and Sam, Éva pretending very hard _not_ to have noticed anything.

'Punk,' he whispers as the discussion about food picks up again.

'Jerk,' Steve fondly replies.

*

'I'm glad Steven Rogers is finally speaking up – I think this country – _un_ -special as it is – still deserves its answers. While I'm less concerned about his relationship status, I'd very much like some of my _other_ questions answered. If he's been as kind to provide access to the New York Times, perhaps he wouldn't mind talking to me, either? I know fossils find it difficult to respond in real-time, but he could try – if he plans on being a serious voice in this election.'

'Not the first time I've been called a fossil,' Steve shrugs when Pepper presses the pause button. 'Could've been worse.'

'No, no, no. You don't see what she's doing. She's prepping the ground to challenge you in an actual live debate.' Pepper sounds much more concerned by this fact than is warranted, Steve thinks. The situation is definitely not as serious to require him making a trip all the way to her New York office to watch a Youtube video.

'So? I talk to her. It's a conversation, not a fight to the death.'

'But Steve, there are things about you.. things she has little chance of knowing, granted, but who's to say what that woman is up to? It could invalidate all the good things that came from the interview.'

'What are you getting at, Pepper,' Steve sounds all but spent. He's passed most of his day and a good chunk on last night on planes and in cars.

'I would like you to be prepared, that's all,' Pepper puts the pen she's been nervously clicking down on the desk. At least she looks apologetic, Steve thinks, before she goes about proving her point. 'Where have you been living after the Blip?'

'In Budapest.'

'Wrong. In a secluded villa in upstate New York.'

'That's not true.'

'It doesn't matter. Who have you been living with?'

'Bucky.'

' _Wrong_! You've been living alone. You needed some time in isolation to think things through. To rest.'

Steve shakes his head and fixes his gaze on the glass panels to his left, on the city that stretches as far as his eyes can see.

'What did you mean when you said your relationship status was complicated?'

'That it's complicated.'

'Wrong again. The woman you've been in love with for decades died and it isn't simple, talking about it.'

'That's not what I...' He's reluctant to tell Pepper what he _actually_ meant, that is, if she hasn't figured it out already on her own – but he also doesn't want to play the game she has in mind. It's enough Captain America's voice had been tailored as a megaphone for the government, he won't let Pepper speak through Steve Rogers now.

'It doesn't matter. What matters is the parts that people want to hear, get it? Nobody _needs_ you to be honest. _Nobody_. Even the people who _think_ they want it. What they _need_ you to be is _effective_.'

'I don't think I can do that.'

'Well, you can't back off anymore, you're already in it. So you'd better get down with the program quickly if you don't want Bellock to win.'

'What do you even want me to do,' he asks, exhausted.

He wishes instantly he hadn't, because what he'd hoped would be the end of that conversation transforms into a meeting with Pepper's social media brigade: twenty-something children schooling him on analytics, talking points and green-yellow-red topics, with suggestions of how to slyly change the flow of imagined conversations and not a little groaning about his hopeless 'non-verbal communication'. There is, apparently, such a thing as 'too honest' and he is entirely guilty of it.

By the time they're wrapping up this 'introductory' session – Steve is horrified to find many more have been scheduled without his knowledge – he notices Clint standing with Sharon on the other side of the glass door. He's grinning widely, while Agent 13 is much more somber, shifting her weight between her two legs, left hand dangerously positioned on her hip in the stance of a disapproving mother. At last, Steve realizes what the team meant about 'non-verbal communication'.

'Clint, Sharon,' he greets when the PR brigade are finally gone. 'Hope you didn't catch that.'

'Caught enough, even with my bad ears,' Clint laughs – though with his aids, his hearing probably comes close to Steve's now. 'Do I wish I hadn't.. you bet.'

'Imagine how I feel,' Steve sighs.

'Sorry I couldn't make the fiesta, Captain Rogers – we were otherwise engaged.' He nods toward Sharon, who snaps out from her serious contemplation.

'Yeah, I was sorry to miss it, too. Especially after Sam couldn't shut up about your neighbor's stew thing for _days_.'

'Goulash,' Steve corrects, instantly mortified for nitpicking. Sharon seems to find it cute rather than offensive.

'Listen, I've gotta run – just wanted to say hi. Mrs. Barton would love to have you over for dinner sometime this week, if you can non-verbally communicate to your handlers to kindly fuck off for an evening?'

'I'll see what I can do,' Steve waves Clint away. Sharon lingers, very obviously torn between leaving with Clint and sharing a piece of her mind with him. They didn't spend a _lot_ of time together, but this expression, at least, is regrettably familiar.

'What is it, Sharon?'

'Are you sure about this, Steve?'

'Which part? If you mean the whole optimizing my image and hitting the right demographics – no, not at all. It wasn't my idea.'

'I know _that_ much,' she scoffs. 'Always doing things your own way. But you're _doing_ them. And people _are_ watching. There's gonna be scrutiny, Steve, Pepper's not delusional about that.'

'Neither am I,' Steve shoots back, annoyed.

'Aren't you? Have you talked to Barnes?'

'Of course I've _talked_ to Bucky, we live together, for Chrissake.'

'I've found those two things don't always correlate with you.'

'Sharon...'

' _Steve_ ,' she rolls her eyes impatiently, bringing the hand back to rest on her hip. She's obviously preparing to scold him. 'This is in no way related to – to what happened between us. Believe it or not, I do still care about you. And I care about James. This – I know you mean well, you always do. But sometimes you can be blind to whoever's gonna get caught in the crossfire. I wanna make sure this isn't one of those times.'

'It's not,' Steve replies, unsure for the first time in the conversation.

'Alright. Keep it that way.'

'I will,' he says, more forcefully now. 'It's – it's nice to see you, Sharon. I wish you'd visit more often, you know – Bucky also loves seeing you.'

'I know that, Steve. I love seeing him, too. When this is all done – hopefully it will be, soon – I'll make it a priority to visit. Until then, I'm sure we'll all run into each other on missions.'

'Yeah, I'm sure we will.'

There's an uncomfortable flutter in his stomach at the mention of new missions and 'all of them' seeing each other – Bucky's been doing well, he's all but healed completely, but Steve hadn't for once entertained the idea of his friend going back out into the field. Thinking about it now, he wishes the serum were slower-working, to allow him the time to solve whatever needs to be solved – apprehend who needs to be apprehended – before Bucky decides he's ready to fight again. Steve wants to fast-forward to a world where neither of them have to do that anymore.

*

Steve returns from his trip to New York in a foul mood. He brings a box of fresh vegetables, courtesy of Laura, along with greetings and get-well-wishes from Clint, Pepper, Bruce, and Sharon. It doesn't escape Bucky that the mention of Sharon casts a shadow over Steve's features. After sleeping through the whole night and what appears to be half of the day, Steve sneaks into his room in the afternoon while he's scrolling through yet another new Twitter account dedicated to news on Steven Rogers –'a real human being and a real hero.' Even though the title fits, Bucky can't help but cringe at the sheer unabashed idolatry. He knows Steve would hate it, so he turns off the iPad as soon as he hears the door creak open. 

Steve lies down on the bed without preamble, his body still hot from sleeping. Bucky lets his arm carefully rest across his shoulders.

'I was wrong when I said I could do this,' Steve whispers.

'No, you weren't.'

'You can't build on a foundation of lies, Bucky. Not a life, much less a just society. They wanna strip everything that's Steve Rogers and make me into _him_ again. It doesn't matter what they call me, it'll always be _him_ they want. I can't do that, Buck. I've come this far to be myself, I can't go back. I don't want to.'

'Fuck what _they_ say,' Bucky spits, guessing the 'them' in question is Pepper's brigade of publicity stuntmen. They'd gotten to him, as well. 'Just be yourself. Be whoever you wanna be.'

'But what if they're right? What if I just mess it up for everyone? What if.. what if _not_ being myself is the price we have to pay for the world being better? Seems small enough, doesn't it?'

Bucky lets himself swallow the first response (which is 'definitely not') and thinks about what Steve is actually saying. Who he's saying it _for_.

'What do they want you to fudge about, anyway? That's so bad?'

Steve whines and buries his head deeper in-between the pillow and Bucky's side.

'The last half a year. Where I've been living, what I've been doing. The other life, which.. I see how _that_ might play out badly in the press. You know... _other_ things.'

Bucky knows exactly which _other_ things Steve is referring to, even if they still haven't talked about them. Perhaps there's no time like the present.

'Why is that a problem?'

'Apart from being dishonest, you mean?'

'Yeah,' Bucky rolls his eyes. Great timing to be stuck on honesty, he thinks.

'I don't know. I... I don't want to hurt you anymore? Or myself. Or both? It's like – it took me decades, to get to this point in my life when I finally.. and then, they wanna just erase... and have me talk about Pegs, and – and even that, it's not the real Pegs...'

'You're gonna have to finish a sentence pal, if you want me to engage in the conversation.'

'Alright. You're right.' Steve pushes himself up on the bed, so the hand Bucky had leaning on his shoulder extends into what looks like an embrace. He doesn't remove it. Steve leans into him until not more than an inch is left between their faces – treading that dangerous territory again. It's complicated, it's possibly either too soon or too late – Bucky can't decide between the two, but at the same time, it's impossible for him not to lean in as well, to bridge that gap Steve's narrowed.

He makes a conscious decision to lick his lips before moving closer, a gesture Steve notices and can't misunderstand. When he mirrors it, Bucky finally finds the courage he needs to nudge Steve's forehead with his own and seal their lips together. Steve brings the hand that's been resting on his lap to cup Bucky's cheek, tentative – like inspecting the texture of a rare and precious archeological artifact that might turn to dust if handled too roughly. The comparison brings up all kinds of pain – that seems just as ancient to Bucky, if wholly unexamined – and he lays his own hand over Steve's, pushing, daring him to touch-touch-touch, without fear.

This is his prerogative, it's his choice. The conversation they're unlikely to find words for, so actions will have to do.

When Steve cocks his head a bit to the side and opens his mouth, Bucky knows the message has been received, loud and clear. Steve exhales into his mouth when their tongues find one another, a breath he's been holding since forever. One final surrender.

'What if I wanna be this,' Steve asks against Bucky's lips. 'Just.. this?'

'You askin' or you tellin' me?'

'I don't know,' Steve forms the words on both their lips, Bucky isn't sure who's speaking. 'Both?'

Bucky's hand lifts from Steve's, he places it on his friend's cheek instead. Steve doesn't move. He has the look of one who's waiting for the Last Judgment.

'Then I'd say.. You need to figure that out first.'

Though his answer is clearly not what Steve wanted to hear, he nods and lays his head on Bucky's shoulder. After a while, Bucky brings his arm back up and embraces his friend.

'I was thinking, you should read me some of this.. Dimitrov?'

Steve murmurs something that _sounds_ like 'whatever you want' and, impossibly, falls asleep yet again.

*

When he wakes up the next morning in Bucky's room, his friend is nowhere to be found. There's a quickly scribbled note on the kitchen counter, saying: 'Went out shopping. Don't wait for coffee, Éva's gonna flip – told her you'd come over. B.'

After a long shower, Steve makes good on Bucky's promise and crosses the courtyard to Éva's door. Some of the plants in front of her apartment have begun to wake up from their winter slumber – tiny, invisible signs of life, but they're there. Life wins out, Steve thinks, in awe that he's spent enough time in one place, in this future at least, to witness the natural cycle. Éva promptly opens the door.

'István, don't you know me well enough to just come in? My coffee will bubble over!'

'Sorry, sorry,' Steve shuffles in behind her. The smell of roasted beans and burnt coffee is unmistakable. He apologizes again when Éva comes over with the tray, looking miffed.

'How was your trip,' she asks.

'Informative,' Steve cryptically replies.

'Ah.'

'What, no questions?'

'I am expecting you will tell me about it.'

'They still want me to be...different.' Éva gives him an are-you-honestly-surprised look. Steve's embarrassed.

'And? You do not want to be different?'

'I _am_ different, I think that's the bone of contention.'

'Different _how_?'

'You _know_ how, come on. Don't make me spell it out.'

'I believe, István, the time for shyness, for reading between the lines – it has passed. You have made a decision to come out – into the open. This carries weight, consequence – not only for you, but for those around you. You _need_ to talk now. It is the weapon you have chosen. Words. So use them.'

Steve sighs, knowing she's right, unsure of where to begin.

'They want me to talk about my wife. My – erm, about Peggy. To say that's what I meant when I said it was complicated. I shot myself in the foot there, to be honest.'

'This is not a bad thing – being honest. You should continue being so.'

'Even if it messes with the elections? Like, even if what I say carries less weight afterwards?'

' _István_. People can smell authenticity. You will never go far – people will never truly understand your message if you are not honest with them. And the first thing you need to do is to be honest with yourself.'

'I'm trying, though – I really am. It's just _hard_. It's hard to figure all of this out.'

'It would help if you actually defined what we are talking about, in _words_ that are not so vague,' Éva supplies.

'What do you want me to say?'

'How about this: I am afraid to tell the world who I am in love with because the person I am in love with is... _name_. I am also afraid to not tell the world who I am in love with, because I fear _name_ will – rightfully so, I add – think it is not serious, the love I feel. In addition, I would then have to speak about my wife, who I love dearly, and that would add insult to injury, as the phrase goes. Is this – how would you say – in the ballpark?'

Steve inhales what feels like a breath to suck the air out of the entire living room. He stares at his friend, who is staring right back.

'I don't know how to be a person who deserves to love Bucky. A person who deserves that love. I've.. I fucked it up royally once, already. Twice? I can't count the times. I'm afraid I don't know how to be that person. How to be _worthy_. He's.. he's everything, you know? You've met him. How do I even begin to make amends?'

Éva squeezes then taps his hand, a sad smile making its way to her face.

'This is not for you to decide, my dear. You already are that person. For better, for worse.'

'And then,' Steve continues, the dam now broken and words – so many words, kept at bay through several lifetimes – competing for primacy. 'And then – what does it mean, for the life I've had with Peggy? I know – I know, it isn't supposed to be zero-sum, what happened happened. But I chose her. At some point, I chose her and I promised. I promised her forever.'

'And this is exactly what you have given. What you _are_ giving, still. But even though you promised, did you not still.. ache? For James? For his company, at least?'

'Of course. Éva – I can't even describe it – when I realized I wouldn't be able to find him, after.. the nightmares. The guilt. Like someone was.. I don't know, like someone had put my chest in a vise and kept tightening it until I thought my lungs would explode. _That's_ how much I missed him. That's how I lived, for years. When I look back now, it feels like _cheating_. It feels like lying. But Lord forgive me, when I – when we're close, when he touches me – a simple touch of the hand, it feels like I can breathe again. I know it shouldn't, but it does. And I don't know what I'd do if I ever lost that. I've lost it so many times, I can't lose it again.'

'There is nobody in the world who can confirm you will not lose it with any certainty. But let me tell you a different story. One I _am_ certain of. If you do not stay true to yourself – if you do not try – _that_ pain, that regret – it will be worse than any loss you can imagine.'

'What do I do? Tell me what to do.'

Éva raises her eyebrows and chuckles.

'It is not long ago, but it feels like a lifetime, that James was sitting in this exact spot, with the same question. Plea, yes? An absolution from responsibility. What do you want to do?'

Steve takes a minute to mull it over. The pause seems somehow crucial, a thin blank line separating everything that's come before from the future which hinges on his answer to Éva.

'I want to give us both what we've denied ourselves, our whole lives. A chance. I want to be the person – the man who deserves Bucky's love.'

'Well, then you do not need my help, my dear.'

'You know what's funny? With Pegs, in this timeline and the other one, there are things that were.. the same. I always though it was odd, but perhaps – I'm beginning to think she always knew.'

'Darling, if she was half as smart as you make her out to be – she did not have a doubt.'

'Isn't that sad,' Steve asks, a film of tears forming over his eyes. 'To live your whole life with someone who you know loves somebody else?'

Éva flicks the ash from her cigarette, shrugs.

'We all love many people, always. If we are old enough, mature enough to recognize it. I would presume your _Pegs_ knew you loved her as well. I would presume James will know the same, if you explain to him. Yes?'

'Yes,' Steve sighs. 'Yes, I suppose so. _It's complicated_.'

'It is life,' Éva winks at him, just in time, before Bucky crashes their small morning party with at least a dozen shopping bags in his hands.

'It is not Christmas again, is it,' Éva laughs. 'I am Jewish, but I am not yet senile?'

'I'm tired of living in a 1930's feature film,' Bucky exclaims. 'We've got painting to do, Rogers.'

*

They spend the day covering furniture with plastic and bickering about shades of red and what Steve is insistent on calling 'off-white' instead of beige. They paint small squares with different shades in all the rooms to give themselves time to decide. In the evening, Bucky sits in his bedroom, waiting for Steve to knock. After the third sound of the quarter-hour bells, he decides the cat-and-mouse game is ridiculous and not a little beneath him at his age, so he goes over to Steve's room instead. He finds him in much the same position he'd himself been in a minute ago, a look of relief painting his features when he sees Bucky's face in the doorway.

'Care for some company,' Bucky asks.

'Only the good kind,' Steve smiles and motions to the bed.

'I thought you'd finally read me this poet Twitter is now raving about, because of you.'

'Your eyesight catching up with your age,' Steve teases.

'Ain't as fun in one,' Bucky counters.

'Okay. Let me see what we can do. Pass me the iPad?'

Bucky looks around and finds it on the desk opposite the bed, hands it to Steve.

'Make it something good,' he warns. 'I don't want that melancholy endings beginnings whatever stuff. I wanna be pleasantly surprised.'

Steve cocks an eyebrow, then shrugs.

'I've found there's not a lot of poetry that's _only_ happy. I guess happy people don't have the need to write about it, they just live in the moment.'

'That sounds a bit like bullshit,' Bucky laughs.

'Maybe,' Steve agrees. 'But if you'll indulge me?'

'Don't I always?'

' _In the New Century I Gave You My Name_. That's the title,' Steve needlessly explains.

'Go on,' Bucky prompts. When Steve's finished his evening recital, Bucky knows exactly why he chose the poem he did.

'And maybe it would've been different, and maybe it would've been this,' he paraphrases. 'That true?'

'Should've been obvious, no?'

Bucky shrugs as if he has no idea what Steve's talking about, when of course – he does.

'Me, breaking into a Hydra facility on my own on the off chance I'd find you there, still breathing. Even if I'd known for sure it was just your body there, I'd have gone all the same. To bring you back home with me.'

'Since then?' Bucky's slightly taken aback.

'Seems like it, doesn't it?'

Before he can dissuade himself from asking and risking a turn for the worse in the evening, Bucky blurts out –

'Then why'd you leave?'

Steve has obviously been expecting the question, because he doesn't bumble like he usually does when something catches him unawares.

'Statistics,' he tries the answer on for size then shakes his head. 'Because it was _easier_. Because I couldn't bear the thought of losing you again.'

'That's a lot of contradiction for a couple of sentences.'

'I know. I'm sorry I can't give you a better answer. I wish I had it, for myself, too.'

'So what is it you're really sayin', Steve?'

'You want me to use words now, do you?'

'Ahem.'

'In that case – what I'm sayin' is, you know me. More than anyone ever did, or will – you know me, Buck. We saved each other and lost each other more times than anyone in the whole of history, seems like. I've also, you know... well, no you don't – I've loved you for what seems like the whole of history to me, too. Breadcrumbs of memories, leading to that.. to the truth of it, of us? I don't know if you feel the same, or when it started for you or if it did – I kinda hope so, I hope I'm not alone in it, sayin' it out loud like the world's ending. Why's it that the world always has to be ending for us to say things?'

Steve's back-and-forth between the Cap all-American and the Brooklyn tough accents is the last drop in the proverbial bucket. Bucky takes both his hands in his own. Metal, flesh, skin – who cares, it's all part of him. Part of _them_.

'I think ,' he says cautiously, 'I've had enough space. I need.. I'm ready for something else now.'

'What do you need,' Steve asks, upturning his hands and extending their palms and fingers to mirror each other's.

'Jeez, let me think, Rogers. What's the opposite of space?'

They both laugh. This is easier than he'd imagined, Bucky realizes, even if it's exceptionally awkward. Neither of them knows how to act, whether to embrace as they lie down or not. How are they going to sleep?

After a while, Steve seems to notice Bucky's discomfort with the window.

'Let's go to your room,' he says. Bucky loves him for it. When they cross the hallway, he playfully pushes Steve onto the bed and kisses him silly. After he realizes they've reached a boundary better left alone for tonight, Bucky nestles against Steve's chest and tries to slow his breathing.

'I've been thinking.. do you suppose the other us, in the other timeline.. do you think they ended up together .. like _this_?

'I don't know,' Steve sighs. Then, after not a lot of deliberation, he adds – 'Probably?'

'I think so, given what you saw.'

'It's so much like you to imagine we _all_ end up saved, somehow,' Steve sounds equally amused and sad.

'What do you mean? You were always the idealist, pal,' Bucky pokes him in the side.

'Ouch! No, I don't think I was.'

'I disagree.'

'Well, _fine_. Maybe we both were.'

' _Fine_.'

Steve squeezes Bucky closer.

'I like the coral for this room,' he says staring at the small squares of color. Bucky isn't sure which color that is – he has an ominous suspicion it's the one he'd call pink – but he still nods into Steve's neck before falling asleep.

*

Bruce's voice is entirely too loud, having woken them up at 6 AM. The sense of urgency in his tone, however, dissuades Steve from commenting that he could give them the same information, a few dozen decibels lower.

'It's so much worse than we thought, on so many levels,' he says. 'Both of you need to come in, ASAP.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it, folks! I know some of you were worried about the lack of actual talking about the kiss in the last chapter – since the next couple of chapters will be heavier on the politics/plot side, I hope this tides you over. :) 
> 
> The poem I mention is from Alex Dimitrov's 'Together and By Ourselves' collection which is a true joy in its entirety, but you can find his 'In the new century I gave you my name' [here.](https://aprweb.org/poems/in-the-new-century-i-gave-you-my-name)
> 
> A fun aside: I wanted to play with the 'no, you move' speech Cap does in the comics (and Sharon ascribes to Peggy in the CA:Civil War movie) and turn it on its head a bit with the 'move' speech he gives in his interview here. While I love what the canonical scene stands for, I think my Steve – having seen what he's seen and grown as a character in his own right – would actually see the benefits of the opposite as well. 
> 
> Looking forward to reading all of your thoughts and comments, as always!


	10. Tiny Changes To Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shocking (maybe) discoveries are revealed about the activities of the Saved Souls. Steve accepts Cassandra's invitation to a debate, which results in a highly unexpected sequence of public over-sharing. After all the stress, there is some peace to be had, at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reporting for my Monday update duty – on time!
> 
> I won't ramble on, but will say that the content warnings for this chapter are included in the end notes not to spoil anything for those of you who like to be surprised. For those who'd rather not be, click on and read the warnings there.
> 
> The chapter title is stolen from a lyric in [Frightened Rabbit's Head Rolls Off.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sE3wVe4nHL0)

**_Ketamine-induced inhibition of facial recognition: The role of neuroticism, medical history and length of target absence_ **

**_Jovich, C., & Washington, L._ **

ABSTRACT

Ketamine micro-dosing has shown promise for the treatment of various body image-related issues in the last few years: coupling small doses with a number of other substances has proven to be a fruitful research avenue in the treatment of neurological disorders stemming from physical injuries. In our clinical trial, we discover a notable side-effect of one such medical cocktail: lapses in facial recognition. In subsequent tests, we show an induced perception alteration in healthy subjects (N=4,306), and compare the severity of symptoms across four experimental groups with different lengths of exposure (five minutes, an hour, a day, two weeks). A logistic regression using a comprehensive battery of psychological tests as predictors of the emergence of the effect yielded significant correlations between a number of personality facets, neuroticism being the strongest, for the persistence of recognition inhibition over time. The role of possible the pathways for the development of the symptoms is discussed, as well as interactions of ketamine with other substances from the medical cocktail tested which might have contributed to the observed effects.

bioRxiv Posted April 17, 2018.

https://doi.org/10.1101/2018.04.17.413979

*

'You've gotta explain this again, Bruce,' Steve moans. His eyes began glazing over as soon as the Professor had started talking – an _hour_ ago, give or take a couple of minutes. The greenish glow of the lights in the lab (and Bruce's skin, if Steve had to guess) are doing nothing for his attention span. Bucky is similarly sprawled across the table, chin in hand, eyelashes fluttering of their own accord – losing the fight against sleep.

'Like we're _five_ , Banner,' he adds. 'Explain it _like we're five_.'

Bruce seems completely out of his element and turns to Sharon for help, who develops a sudden, violent interest in a torn cuticle. When he looks over to Clint, the man shrugs and taps his hands on the legs outstretched across the office chair opposite him, by all accounts ready for a nap.

'Alright,' Professor Hulk sighs. 'bioRxiv – it's a kind of.. library?'

'We know what a damned library is, this wasn't the problem!'

'A _five-year old_ might not,' Bruce mumbles. 'Anyway, it's a kind of _science before science_ library. Where you can publish results without them being vetted – well, _before_ they're vetted, which can take a long time.'

'Okay, with you so far,' Steve nods.

'I've been looking for mentions of Capgras and cases close to it, right? But this, this paper escaped me because they _didn't_ mention Capgras.'

'What _did_ they mention,' Bucky asks impatiently.

'That's the thing. The authors were looking into eating disorders, testing psychoactive drugs for Big Pharma. But they got an interesting side-effect of their drug in combination with ketamine – some of the healthy subjects didn't recognize the experimenters after they returned to the room. So they did more tests, with different groups of subjects - and they had a hit rate of almost 10% for the effect. Which doesn't sound like a lot, but it _is_. Then they also manipulated whether the experimenter stayed in the room after the person had been given the drug cocktail, or whether they left and came back repeatedly in regular intervals, or they were gone for five minutes, or an hour, you get the gist. And they found a trend for the time of exposure, or lack thereof. Almost 30% of the people – especially those with certain risk factors – didn't recognize the experimenters when they hadn't seen them in a week.'

Steve tries to wrap his head around what Bruce is saying, or what he _thinks_ he's saying. The Capgras epidemic.. it wasn't an epidemic? He remembers one of his first conversations with Éva, in which she'd told him guilt was a potent force in human psychology, but perhaps not quite as potent as to cause what had happened to Ildikó **,** without a little something extra. This is the little extra Steve realizes, horrified.

'You understood that, right,' Bruce looks around the room expectantly. Steve follows his gaze over to Bucky, who has the same outraged expression on his paper-white face as Steve guesses is on his own face. Clint is staring blankly at the wall. Sharon and Wanda are exchanging meaningful glances. Finally, everyone seems to be up to speed.

'There's something else,' Steve says more as a statement than a question, given how Bruce is practically skipping where he stands, signaling he can't wait to continue.

'Yeah, so the distribution –' Bruce begins.

'They were poisoning the water supply,' Bucky interrupts, his expression unreadable. 'To see what happens. That's where the cases were, no?'

'Correct,' Bruce nods, delighted. Steve almost resents his obvious excitement in talking about a biological terrorist attack. ' _Most_ of the cases were in the areas we've found maps of – for the pipelines. And the others.. I'm guessing that was what they'd call emotional contagion. Else – just normal folks with normal issues and over-eager therapists. That's why it was so hard to connect the dots at first.'

Bucky scoffs and throws his pen across the table with force. Steve is overcome with the desire to cross the room and...do something. Take his hand? The idea sounds ridiculous even as it forms in his mind, but he can't shake off the need to comfort his friend. He settles on pinning Bucky with his gaze until Bucky lifts his eyes to look into Steve's, who gives him a small nod. _It's gonna be okay, Buck_ , he tries to project. Bucky shakes his head, as if to reply – no, it's not.

'Where's Sam,' Steve finally asks.

'We discovered another hideout,' Sharon interjects. 'He's already been briefed, with Pepper.'

'Is there anything _else_ ,' Steve asks, because Bruce is still holding his breath like a schoolgirl, waiting to divulge the juiciest part of the gossip to her friends – his _coup de grâce_. Steve is terrified to hear what _that_ might be.

'The reason we didn't find this before – well, it's never been cited. It was published just before the Snap, eleven days before, to be exact. Now, this second author, he was the lab head, the PI, Lamar Washington. He died three weeks after the Snap, his wife and two children had.. vanished.'

The last sentence is enough for everyone in the room to fill in the blanks, and casually – not at all obviously – turn towards Clint, who is doing his best not to show any emotion. Wanda rolls her chair a bit closer and puts a tentative hand on his shoulder. Steve watches as Clint's body relaxes into the chair and he returns the gesture, patting Wanda's hand and giving her a short wink.

'I tried to track down the first author, the post-doc, but I couldn't find anything at first,' Bruce continues once the exchange is over. 'Which – strange. Post docs are normally never shy with self-promotion, it's part of the job. But – nothing. No personal website, no profile on LinkedIn, ResearchGate, Academia.com, Mendeley, you name it we searched it and came up empty.'

'You're saying words again, Bruce,' Bucky warns.

'Right. _Sorry_. The point is – there was so little information, that was information in and of itself. We finally dug up that this person had done a chemistry doctorate at Northwestern, published a couple of papers on ecology – nothing spectacular. But _then_. The AI picked up a mention of them on a photo from their graduation ceremony. It's a small cohort, you can see her face clearly. Jovich, C. C, for Cassandra.'

'You've _gotta_ be shitting me,' for once it's Steve who says it before Bucky can even open his mouth. ' _Bellock_?'

'Yup,' Bruce says, and thankfully it looks like he's finally done.

'She's a senator! How did we _not_ know this?'

'After the Snap, with the electrical shortages and the general pandemonium – data got lost. A _lot_ of data. We knew she had a PhD in Chemistry, but so what? She'd been active in the relief efforts after the Snap, that's what she ran on, is running on now. She never talked about her previous work.'

'And nobody did a _background check_ ,' Steve asks incredulously.

'Of course we did,' Sharon retorts, offended. 'We know our jobs, Steve. But there was nothing to go on. Since she's been running for president, her CV says she spent those post-doc years in Vienna. I went to check the physical archives there personally. There was no mention of her, but the professors at the University said they remembered working with her, had only good things to say. There wasn't much reason to doubt that, until now.'

'Of course those fuckers are involved,' Bucky sighs.

'That's another thing,' Sharon continues. 'We tried to find a link between the pipelines and.. well, the other pipelines. Turns out, there's a thin lead back to a company in the ECU, the subsidiaries of its subsidiaries, Russian doll situation. The running theory is, they're also involved.'

'Wait! Let _me_ say it,' Clint near-yells. 'You've _gotta_ be shitting me!'

Steve rolls his eyes, but Bucky chuckles, nodding at Clint. As far as shared experience goes, Steve thinks having your mind controlled to nefarious purposes is probably one of those that breeds a justified sense of familiarity.

'So what do we do now,' he asks.

'We expose her,' a voice from behind them says matter-of-factly. Pepper is standing in the door, tight-yet-sensible burgundy dress and a lipstick that seems to be made out of the same fabric, in the exact same color. 'You accept her invitation for the debate, Steven, and we expose her.'

'That's _one_ way of going about it,' Bucky shrugs. He opens his mouth to expand on the statement, but Pepper cuts him off.

'No, it's the _only_ way. It needs to be public. People need to see her face when the accusations are made.'

'Perhaps it would be good to strategize...' Sharon starts, but she's cut off just as quickly.

'We have. It's our best option. Steven, do you have any issues with this?'

'I guess not,' Steve sighs, though his gut seems to disagree. _Something will go wrong_ , he thinks. _Something always does_. The others don't look more optimistic, but nobody has a better idea.

'Good. Thank you, Steven,' for a moment, she almost looks apologetic. 'I've taken the liberty of scheduling some meetings, to prepare you. Someone will email the agenda shortly.'

After Pepper leaves, Bruce tries to salvage the atmosphere.

'This is good news, everyone. We got her!'

'Not before she got us,' Clint mumbles, then stands and walks away, Sharon and Wanda in tow. Bruce hopefully turns towards Steve and Bucky, who are exchanging a skeptical look of their own.

'I believe the kids would call this a clusterfuck,' Bucky laughs sardonically. Bruce ignores him.

'This will speed up the issue with the Souls as well,' he says. 'You won't have to be Cap much longer, Cap.. _Steve_.'

Despite what appear to be Bruce's best intentions, the statement only serves to form yet another knot in Steve's stomach. Bucky doesn't look any happier.

*

** Cass vs. Cap: The debate of the century? Share your predictions in the poll below! **

** NBC to host a conversation between presidential hopeful Bellock and one-time lead Avenger Steven G. Rogers **

** Rick Jones: The only kid from class not invited to the birthday party **

*

Bucky scrolls through the headlines for the twentieth time in the last two days, trying to gauge public sentiment on the debate, especially in connection to Steve and the potential issues that could come up during the social media 'questions from the audience' part of the show. There's one question a lot of people on Twitter definitely seem interested in, that is likely giving Pepper's people nightmares. He'd like to bask in the feeling of Schadenfreude for a moment at least, but the thought of Steve having the same nightmare prevents him from doing so. He hates the thought of something related to him causing Steve headaches when the man already has so much on his plate.

Speaking of which – Steve has barely eaten today, engrossed in research on talking points and the data about the Saved Souls ops that might lead back to Bellock. Bucky defrosts one of the dinners the Avengers compound invisible staff have stocked the fridge with and takes it over to the room Steve's been using as an office. He finds him exactly as he left him in the morning before going out to chase intel with Sharon, crouched over his laptop. Steve looks up when the door opens, and gives Bucky a grateful smile when he notices the plate in his hands.

'Can't let you waste away before your big TV debut,' Bucky says as he lowers the plate on Steve's print-outs.

It takes him a moment to decide whether to linger or leave Steve to finish his work for the day – coming as close to him, however, makes it less of a decision and more of a certainty. The air in the small room is a concentrate of Steve – the mild scent of his hair shampoo, the soft warmth radiating from his body. Bucky's arms snake around Steve's chest as he deposits a sloppy kiss into the the crook of Steve's neck from behind. It's more than a little awkward, both his action and Steve's reaction in bringing his hand to rest in Bucky's hair somewhat reluctant. When they look at each other, they burst into laughter at the same time and the residual embarrassment is dispelled at once.

They've been testing the boundaries of this new way of relating to each other since their midnight conversation in Budapest – though the chaos surrounding the debate and discoveries regarding Bellock have afforded them little time to do much more than brush hands or lips in passing on the way to and from bed in the mornings. From what little they _have_ done, Bucky is satisfied to note it's felt deliciously trivial – if endearingly clumsy. Their familiarity has made the transition into the territory of _more_ simultaneously easy and incredibly confusing. Each time they're alone together, doing things they've done countless times before, Bucky finds himself consciously probing his reactions to Steve: _Do I want to inch closer to him now? Is this a good moment for a kiss? For a hand on his shoulder? For a badly disguised attempt at sexual innuendo?_

The last part is the most contentious: Bucky is not a little amused to find it so, given his youthful reputation and the fact they're both over a hundred years old. He ascribes some of their attempts to skirt around the issue to the social mores of the time they grew up in, but if he had to guess, this is actually only a minor factor. Bucky doesn't know what Steve would want from him in this regard, if anything. (This is a lie. He might be clueless, but he isn't completely blind – he's gotten a good sense of Steve's reactions to their casual touches to know what his friend feels isn't strictly platonic. Ascribing his own doubts to Steve, however, is easier than admitting the undignified truth of the matter: that he's scared shitless he won't be any _good_ at it, whatever the 'it' is. How positively adolescent of you, Barnes, he admonishes himself.)

'What're you thinking,' Steve asks, bumping Bucky's nose with his own. Bucky's hopeful they're too close for Steve to notice he's blushing. Because _damn it_.

'I'm thinking you should probably call it a night,' he says, tightening his embrace and resting his head in the crook of Steve's neck, on his shoulder.

'Believe it or not, I have _homework_ ,' Steve at least has the decency to sound annoyed.

'Alright,' Bucky sighs. 'Later, then.'

'Buck,' Steve beckons just as he's about to close the door. 'Would you – care to help? With this?' He lifts two large stacks of paper filled with questions and answers, mostly crossed out in red where Steve disagrees with Pepper's directions.

'You wanna go through your notes together, Rogers?'

'Do you mind?'

'Course not.' Bucky brings up an extra chair to the desk and casually glances at the counter-arguments Steve's been scribbling down. Sometimes there's little to add to Pepper's suggestions, but sometimes – it's hard to think of better answers without twisting the truth, and not in a small way.

'I know what to say when she goes off about the Returned not _really_ being citizens anymore _legally_ , or collateral damage from Avengers' fights – or things like these weird comments about Sam being Cap – that's easy,' Steve points out a stack of papers with tick-marks on them.

'What isn't,' Bucky asks, sneaking a peek at the paragraphs which are almost completely underlined in red ink.

'This part,' Steve points to the bottom of the page he's holding out. 'I found it in one of her early interviews, she didn't seem quite as militant then? A lot of the things she's done as Senator were good things.'

'Apart from experimenting on people by dosing them with drugs to forget their families, you mean?'

'Yeah, but.. she has a point in some of her misgivings about the Avengers.'

'Such as?'

'Wait, it's here somewhere,' Steve shuffles through the papers. Bucky can't help but notice how absolutely charming he is while concentrated.

'This – _USA can't be a true democracy while it's run by self-satisfied egomaniacs, or held hostage by a small elitist group of so-called superheroes who make decisions for the global population without ever consulting said population on its preferred course of action. Look, I understand – sometimes there's not enough time, but the Blip? There was time. Preparations could've been made. Infrastructure could've been set in place. Instead, we're dealing with world hunger on a scale like we've never seen, problems of citizenship, problems of bigamy – you name it. And it all could've been avoided, if someone had just picked up the phone and said – hey, this is the plan. How do we make it work?_ '

Steve looks at Bucky with dismay, searching his face for a hint of disagreement with the statement. Bucky doesn't know what to say. The question poses itself: How had this not occurred to them? The consequences? Why has it always been shoot first, ask questions later? Did it have to be that way?

'She's not wrong,' he finally says. 'What's the Pepper-vetted response?'

'Something about the governments being in disarray, we wouldn't have known who to ask.'

'That's _an_ answer,' Bucky muses.

'What's the other?'

'You could say she's not wrong. That you could've done better.'

Steve sighs.

'I don't know if that'd win us any points.'

'Probably not. Or maybe, it would win you a lot of points. For being able to own up to your mistakes.'

'You think so?'

'Worked with me, didn't it?'

'I'm not sure others are as predisposed to forgive me,' Steve rolls his eyes.

'Too true. Gimme some more of those hard questions,' Bucky replies. Steve reshuffles the papers and shows him every point where he thinks Cassandra might have the higher ground. They try to work around the issues, while keeping in line with Steve's honesty policy. Saying it's difficult would be a gross understatement.

After three hours, having burnt all of their midnight oil, Steve follows Bucky to bed. They lay with a gap of a whole body between them at first, turning left and right, conquering the empty space until they're flush with one another in the middle. Steve maneuvers his hand under Bucky's arm, to rest against the small of his back. It's clear he has something else on his mind.

'Out with it, Rogers,' Bucky groans, eyes still closed. The pressure of the hand on his back increases slightly, he isn't sure Steve is even aware of the fact.

'It feels too neat somehow, is all,' Steve whispers. 'Too easy?'

Though 'easy' isn't the first word Bucky would use to describe the last half a year on the global scale, he understands Steve's meaning. Neither of them are used to things sliding into place with quite as few dangling threads as the debate promises. Not when it comes to the fights, or their personal lives. Still, he decides Steve deserves the clean break – they both do. He scoots closer, putting his leg over Steve's in the least elegant way possible.

'Gift horse, mouth,' he says. 'Now sleep.'

*

Even though falling asleep with Bucky is infinitely easier than when he's on his own, Steve still doesn't manage it the night before the big event. It has little to do with the violent snoring, which makes him chuckle.

Steve isn't sure what it is that feels wrong, or dangerous, about the coming day. He's made his peace with there being questions he'll have to agree on with Cassandra, or those he'll have to dodge and answer vaguely not to give too much away. What that leaves as a potential reason of unrest is the fact that he doesn't know what the threat ending means for him; or for Bucky and him, together. Sharon and Sam have foiled a dozen small-scale attacks of the Souls in the last weeks, even before they got the intel on the ECU company involvement and Bellock. After they expose her, the public will hopefully see reason – regardless, he'll have said his piece. Sam is healed, Bucky too. There won't be much more for him to do as Captain America, after the election.

Steve wonders if this feeling of dread has anything to do with the anticipated regret at losing his justifications for staying his young self. If he knows they're mere justifications – what does that even say about him? Does he need them, to stay, or to go? Stay, or go. Stay. Go. The two words flash through his mind the whole night, and follow him all the way into the dressing room of the NBC studio. He looks in the mirror after everyone's left – a rare minute of peace that is anything but. Two Steves look back from his reflection – fighting for dominance. Steve wonders if he has to be either.

Bucky comes into the room shortly before the show is set to begin, while Steve is fumbling with his tie.

'I've got 'ya,' he says, pushing Steve's hands away and making a perfect knot. Steve can't help but notice the slight tremor in Bucky's hands, or the odd parallel to the situation before all of this had started: when he'd been old and Bucky had been avoiding him like the plague, the first day they spent together in Budapest. The evening of the funeral. Is this what it is, what it will turn out to be?

'Where would I be without you, Barnes,' Steve puts his hand on Bucky's shoulder. Bucky speaks to his reflection in the mirror.

'Somewhere in a ditch behind the Bunny Theatre's my guess.'

'Too true. Wish me luck?'

'No luck needed. Just.. be you. When you're you, it's hard not to..'

Bucky's voice trails off. Steve stares at him to see if he'll finish the sentence.

'Buck, if I – ' he starts, when the assistant comes to usher him towards the podium.

'Don't sweat it, pal,' Bucky says. 'Do what you gotta do.'

Steve turns around to sneak one last look at Bucky as he's walking away, and there it is – just as he'd feared – there's the smile that covers for a hundred of Steve's sins and cleanses them with understanding, coupled with the same look he'd given Steve the day below the platform. _You shouldn't have to do that_ , Steve thinks. _I don't want to see you look at me like that ever again_. Stay, go, stay, go. A word prevails as Steve climbs up the stairs that creak beneath his weight and up to the three chairs in the middle of the stage.

The auditorium smells like _new_ things – freshly unwrapped furniture and plastic. Cassandra is already sitting on the opposite chair, the moderator in the middle. She gives him a curt nod as he settles down, while Jack – the moderator – nervously shakes his hand. They check the mics and bring out bottles of water. Steve can't help but stare at his opponent – she's much smaller in person than she appears when plastered on billboards or across a TV screen. Her long hair is what he'd describe as _violently_ dark – both the purple tone and her pale complexion betray the fact it isn't her natural hair color. The dark blue power suit seems similarly out of place on her, or she is out of place in it – it's hard to tell why he thinks so, but the thought sparks a flash of recognition in him. He knows what it's like, hiding behind a shield. Still, that isn't all there is to it – is it? Before he can follow the breadcrumb trail in his thoughts, the red camera lights turn on and Jack begins his introduction to the debate.

Now is not the time, Steve thinks, eyes passing from her to the audience in an almost panicked attempt to find Bucky. He hopes the desperation isn't quite so obvious to those watching.

The conversation kicks off with what Jack calls 'warm-up' questions, and it's cordial enough. They even agree on a couple of policy suggestions about restarting the industry in a more ecologically responsible manner, and subsidies for sustainable small businesses. They clash when it comes to issues of citizenship, and Cassandra's support for the ECU leadership, though she's careful not to throw her whole support behind them, disguising it as part of her overall platform on the importance of democracy and self-determination. She wraps up her answer by saying she doesn't have any personal connections or vested interest in what goes on in any other country except the US. _Gotcha_ , Steve thinks.

Just as he's about to drive the conversation in that direction, she takes a deep breath – obviously all for show – and retrieves something from a folder on the table next to her. Steve can't see what it is at first, but it looks like photographs.

'While we're on the subject of the ECU, perhaps Captain Rogers can explain something to me,' she looks at Jack, who nods for her to carry on. 'What is your connection to the person here in the photograph beside you, Captain?'

When she turns the photo to the cameras and to Steve, he is at first confused – not even as to how she'd gotten a hold of a picture of Éva and him chatting in the doorway of their building, but more as to why she'd even care.

'That's my neighbor,' he stutters, trying to hide his shock. 'Why is this of anyone's concern?'

'Well,' Cassandra draws it out, 'perhaps because this lady – however unassuming she may look – is a dissident known to the authorities for her involvement with the ECUnity group, an antigovernmental organization being investigated in relation to many criminal acts across the states of Hungary, Austria and Croatia.'

'That's hardly a fair assessment,' Steve tries to buy some time to digest the information himself, 'They're a charity helping the Returned.'

' _Illegally_ ,' Cassandra enunciates. The audience reaction is as confused as Steve's.

'What's legal and what isn't doesn't always correspond to what's right or not,' Steve replies.

'Ah, there it is – the _vanity_ I'm always talking about. Captain Rogers knows best.'

'It's not vanity,' Steve tries not to sound as if he's pouting. 'It's the truth.'

'Maybe you can tell us _the truth_ about these other photos, too?'

She takes out two different photos and holds them one beside the other, up for the camera to focus on. The left was taken sometime in early December, Steve realizes in dismay when he looks at the old man smiling in his thick jumper next to Éva as she waters the plants under her window. Bucky is standing next to them, the glint of his metal hand unmistakable as he holds a pair of garden shears at the ready. It's the same hand that can be seen on the right photo, awkwardly positioned against Steve's shoulder, Éva's knowing expression staring at the bridge between them from her doorway.

How had they let themselves become this negligent? Steve can't get over the question on repeat in his head, as he searches again for Bucky's eyes and finds the very same sentiment in his incredulous frown as well. Even from where Steve is sitting and Bucky is what could be miles away, hidden in the dark of the rows of seats next to Pepper and Sharon, Steve can still see the pent-up rage building in the outline of his shoulders. He's so focused on him he almost misses Cassandra's next sentence.

'If you need a memory jog like a lot of old folks do, understandably – the left photograph was taken in December of last year, and this other one is from the end of January. Can you tell the audience who the old man is, Captain Rogers?'

Jack seems completely out of his depth, much like Steve feels, turning around to him and gesturing to provide an answer. Steve quickly examines his options – what's left of his battlefield instincts kicking in. He could say he has no clue. It's unlikely she has evidence to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt it's him, and while time travel is now 'a thing' – nobody knows about the de-aging aspect they'd accidentally stumbled across. Still, the words he said to Bucky prevent him from choosing the clean escape. You can't build a life on a lie, he'd said. This is what he's doing now – laying down a foundation for the life to follow. Steve can't allow it to be built on quicksand.

'It's me.' Cassandra smirks knowingly. Jack rubs his eyes beneath the spectacles, oblivious to the fact the show is being live-streamed across the globe.

'Could you elaborate on that, Captain?'

'I can try,' Steve sighs, buying himself a couple of seconds with a round of perplexed chuckles from the audience. 'Let me tell you a story. It begins like this – a young, sickly guy wants to follow his best friend into war. He feels like he isn't doing his part, he isn't doing _enough_. So after the nth rejection, he get this incredible opportunity to be a part of something much bigger than himself. Literally,' Steve adds, all charm – and there it is again, approving hums and nods from the audience. Can this actually work, he spares a quick hopeful thought before he continues. Cassandra doesn't look too worried, but she isn't what you'd call pleased either. 'He meets a lot of incredible people during his time in the army – people who become brothers, friends, more than that even – and then just as everything clicks into place, he makes a decision that sees him transported into a very distant future in which he doesn't know anyone. But again, he meets more incredible people, more friends, more... – you catch my meaning. And after what seems like another lifetime of fighting, of war, he experiences a defeat that echoes throughout a universe that is bigger than anything he could've imagined. How does he fix it? He doesn't. Those incredible people – many of them give their lives to turn defeat into a victory, such as can be had. They give him a chance for a do-over, not a fresh start – but a familiar one. The man takes it. Against even his own better judgment, he takes the offered opportunity of a different kind of life. And it isn't perfect, you see, because nothing is – but when he's finally made peace with it, he comes back to that starting point only to see nothing has been resolved. Not by victory, or sacrifice. And it hurts – the fact that some can easily discard what others have given their lives to salvage – it hurts me, personally. It makes me _angry_. So I figure – one last mission. But it's never that, is it?'

Steve doesn't notice when his story turns from the third- to the first-person. He also chooses to ignore Cassandra's ever-widening grin and Jack's head-first tumble into moderation Hell. In for a penny, in for a pound.

'The whole reason I chose to speak up, really, is to honor the memories of those who staked their lives on the hope that we can do better. That this country – the world, the universe – that it deserves to be trusted. And I thought, perhaps naively, that if I can be so many things at once, live so many lives, then so can America. You know, Cassandra, I've read your interviews from years ago and there's a lot of similarities in the way we think. We need to let go of the old, you're right. And perhaps I'm part of that history – I certainly thought so, which is why I passed the shield on to Sam Wilson, who represents all that's best about our country. About the future we can have. But that future needs to be better than what you're offering. It can't be a future good for a select few, it has to be a future for _everyone_. Loss has shown me – _us_ – how precious life is. How _random_ pain can be. The one thing we can't allow to be random is our compassion. Our love, in all its shapes and sizes. We _can_ learn to love again. We can forgive. If these last couple of months I've spent back here have taught me anything, it's that.'

Steve takes a breath and looks to Bucky, nods. The audience erupts into applause. Jack is fumbling with sheets of paper, made suddenly irrelevant. Can it be this easy, Steve thinks. Does the truth really set you free? His gaze turns to Pepper, sitting next to Bucky, as she dabs a tissue under her eyes and _smiles_ at him. Bucky seems too shocked to even join in the applause.

'Noble sentiments,' Cassandra deadpans. 'An American dream for the twenty-first century, starting over, pulling yourself up by your bootstraps – across time, no less. A life less ordinary, less available to most of our citizens, too.'

'Miss Bellock, nothing about my life has _ever_ been ordinary,' Steve smiles. The audience, once again, explodes into laughter.

'Another point on which we may agree,' she says, then continues in a casual, by-the-way tone that is anything but. 'Tell me Captain Rogers, who is the other, younger man on the photos I showed you?'

Steve opens his mouth to reply, but she's quicker.

'Is he not James Buchanan Barnes, code name Winter Solider, an international terrorist? Who has never been tried for his crimes because he fell under the blanket clemency offered by the interim President after the Snap, one you lobbied for, together with Natasha Romanoff, yet _another_ assassin and former enemy spy you call a friend? Would you care to explain how you choose your associates, Captain?'

'I don't see how this is relevant to our discussion this evening,' Steve says at first. After the reveal about his life in the past, it seems but a drop in the ocean – an atom, even.

Cassandra looks like she's about to explain just how relevant it is, but that isn't what gives Steve pause. He remembers the look on Bucky's face when he'd turned around what feels like a century ago, exiting the dressing room. 'Do what you gotta do.' He also remembers what he promised in the quiet of his thoughts as he turned back and faced the audience. _I don't want to see you look at me like that ever again_.

 _I'm sorry Buck_ , Steve thinks. _I've gotta do this_. This is the only way we move on. Not by getting away with it, but by owning up to who we are. _All_ we are.

Before Cassandra can expand on the myriad reasons why the public might be interested in who he calls 'friend', Steve corrects himself.

'Actually, I apologize – that's not exactly true.'

*

Bucky can't believe he'll have to sit through a second heart-attack in five minutes. Steve has only just pulled off a miracle – he's gotten the audience to back him on something even Bucky would've thought there was no coming back from. He's pretty sure he won't be able to pull the same trick twice in a row – this is what he tries to telepathically signal to Steve against all odds, but then he sees the look on Steve's face and knows enough of his friend to tell the war has already been lost. He never could leave well enough alone. Pepper seems to have come to the same conclusion, clutching the tissue in her hand tighter and fighting to keep a straight face when it's obvious she wants to stand up and call for an end to the spectacle. To her credit, she collects herself in a matter of seconds, her features betraying nothing more than mildly amused disinterest.

' _Of course_ it's relevant,' Steve begins what promises to be yet another soliloquy. 'Natasha Romanoff was _relevant_. She wasn't just my friend; she was a SHIELD operative and a valued member of the Avengers, who sacrificed her life on the mere chance that the world could go back to what it was, before the Snap. That the people we lost could be returned. This is on top of all her previous missions, in which she saved countless lives, time and time again, whether directly or by retrieving invaluable intel for the US secret services.'

Steve takes a moment to have a sip of water. Good, Bucky thinks – leave it at that. Cassandra is looking at him, eyebrow raised, obviously waiting for his reply about the Winter Soldier. How much does she actually know, Bucky wonders – it _can't_ be everything. It doesn't matter, he concludes, because Steve's got that dangerous look about him, like dropping-the-shield-and-refusing-to-fight the assassin with the face of a friend on top of a crumbling helicarrier, or crashing-your-plane-into-the-ice because his life doesn't seem valuable enough to risk the lives of countless others for him to survive.

'James Barnes is _relevant_. He is a WWII decorated veteran, who spent more than sixty years as a POW. He saved my life countless times, as well as the lives of every single man who served with him. He fought in the battle of Wakanda by my side. And while the international intelligence community, like you say, might know him as the Winter Soldier, me.. I've known Bucky my whole life.' Steve's voice grows impossibly soft, as if he's forgotten he's in the middle of a bloody debate with a woman out for his jugular, being filmed by cameras streaming to the whole wide world in real-time. He looks up at the audience, searching for Bucky's eyes for God knows which time this evening – when he finds him, Bucky does his best to shake his head and scream NO without moving a muscle or uttering a single word.

Steve just smiles and cocks his head – blinks once – the signature it-will-be-okay move. Which is exactly how Bucky knows it most definitely won't be.

'It's a funny thing, time. I've had more than most, as you've all found out tonight,' he chuckles, and the majority of people around Bucky follow suit. He finds it hard to believe. 'For a lot of that time, Bucky's been the one person I knew for certain I could rely on. When things were bad, and I mean _really_ bad – before Captain America was even a notion of Dr. Erskine's. When we had nothing, we had each other.' Steve laughs to a private joke. 'He used to write stories, when we were younger - each Christmas, he'd write an installment about how we'd travelled somewhere abroad – like Paris or Hawaii, Jupiter once – and I'd draw these poor sketches of the two of us in those places. I travelled across the world a hundred times over, but the first time – it was in Bucky's stories.'

'Is there a point to this trip down memory lane,' Cassandra asks cynically, goading him on.

'Yes. The point is, you don't get to talk about James Buchanan Barnes without knowing what I know. Without knowing he wouldn't leave his men to be captured on their own even though he'd had the chance to escape. How he made sure every wounded soldier from the Hydra camp, however desperate their outlook, was securely propped up on a tank or on their brothers' shoulders. How he wouldn't run to save himself in the midst of explosions before I'd jumped the distance to safety, too. How even as a fugitive, he still fought for the world that would see him imprisoned for life. If you don't know about the good he's done, because of the person he is, you don't get to talk about the bad others made him do. It's as simple as that. We've all been complicit in the failings of the Avengers – I made bad choices, God knows, and Tony sometimes did as well, Nat – the same. But Buck – he's never made a wrong choice in his life, and you're still trying to drag his name through the mud. I won't stand for it.'

Not great, not terrible, Bucky remembers a quote from a show they've recently seen on HBO in their attempt to catch up on 'history'.

'That sounds an awful lot like sentimentality, Captain, if not something _more,_ ' Cassandra mocks.

'Alright, I think we shouldn't throw baseless accusations at one another – ' Jack comes out of his coma at the worst possible moment. Steve's head snaps back to look at him.

'Accusations?' Here we go, Bucky thinks. Brace for impact.

'I only meant – this isn't the reason we're here, Captain Rogers –' the moderator fumbles for words, visibly afraid of Steve.

'But _it_ _is_. Isn't it, Cassandra?'

She looks at the cameras, then at Jack, with raised eyebrows, feigning innocence.

'Or have you run out of your candid-camera snapshots? Let me throw you a bone, and you don't even have to work for it,' Steve says.

 _Shit-shit-shit_ , Bucky thinks. _Don't do it_. (There's another, quieter voice in his head that's saying the exact opposite – _yes-yes-yes, do it-do-it-do-it_.) One glance at Pepper tells him which voice she'd side with. Despite the desperate grip on the tissue in her lap, she looks _proud_ of Steve.

'By all means, Captain Rogers. I think this country deserves more than half-truths, for once.'

'While I'd beg to differ that the country _deserves_ to know anything about my personal life, I've also got nothing to be ashamed of. The whole truth is, I've loved Bucky for most of my life, and it took me a century to admit that – to myself, to him – how each and every one of my choices were guided by what I first learned from him – how to care for a single human being as if they were the whole world, and how to generalize that love to that same world as a consequence. How that made me – both of us – better. So you see, if I found the guts to say these words to him after a century of keeping quiet, I have no problem saying them to _you_. You don't have to throw your innuendos around, I'll give it to you straight.'

'Or _not_ ,' Cassandra chuckles. A couple of people in the audience do the same, but to Bucky's surprise, most remain silent as a tomb. He can't begin to conclude whether this is a good or a very-bad thing. He's finding it hard to figure out how he personally feels about it, too. Pepper turns to him and puts her perfectly-manicured hand on top of his gloved, metal one.

'He's done really well,' she whispers, on the brink of tears. Bucky feels something akin to a tear make its way down his cheek, too. 'You've both done so well.' The moment is broken by Steve speaking up again, with new resolve.

'Maybe you'll return the favor, now that we've turned my life inside out for everyone to gawk at? Say, maybe you can tell us about your research on a chemical compound that mimics the symptoms of Capgras syndrome? Or your connections to the ECU water filtration company that's been linked to an act of global terrorism, poisoning more than 10% of the world's population with a drug cocktail similar to the one you discovered in 2018?'

*

The information resonates through the auditorium much more loudly than any discovery about Steve's old-new lives. Jack tries to downplay the reveal to give Cassandra a chance to respond, but the cacophony of whispers and outraged booing is too loud. After the third failed attempt, he motions for the security guards to come to the rescue, and the producers to roll a commercial break. The whole affair is wrapped up in no time, Steve lead back to his dressing room by three guards half his size.

It irks him that they stopped the discussion at this point – rather than, say, at any _other_ point when Cassandra had aired her own accusations against him – but he decides to count it as a win. As he's descending from the stage, he tries to turn back to find Bucky and gesture for his friend to join him, but he's nowhere to be seen. The reason for this becomes apparent when he steps into the small room and Bucky is already there, with Pepper and Sharon by his side. Steve has the inexplicable urge to run to him – but not being quite sure what to do once he reaches Bucky stops him from making a scene.

Sharon is trying to hide her giggles while Pepper delivers a short speech about what's transpired, as if they weren't all in the same room – some of them doing the actual talking. Her conclusion sounds as positive as Steve could've expected – but what touches him most is the way she squeezes his arm on her way out, nodding with a smile before she takes her leave. Sharon opts for a quick hug and a wink, and then it's just the two of them – Buck and him – standing a couple of feet apart, unsure what to do next. 

'Buck?' Steve asks, a prompt to begin any conversation his friend sees fit.

'That.. _what the Hell_ were you thinking?' Though the words definitely seem accusatory, his tone is anything but.

'Too much too soon?' Steve tries for a joke.

'I mean, I'm not gonna say it wasn't _ridiculously_ romantic, Rogers,' Bucky can't hide his grin for long. 'But it was also _insane_.'

'That's me in a nutshell,' Steve shrugs.

'So what do we do now?'

'We wait for the election.'

'And then?'

Steve knows what Bucky's really asking. He thinks that, for the first time, he has an answer to the question beneath the question – an outline of one, at least, that's more than a knee-jerk thoughtless reaction borne out of guilt. But he still needs to give himself time to be sure he's voicing it correctly before speaking to Buck. After all, it was Buck who'd said he needed to either ask or tell him – something – or both: Steve wants to honor the promise he's made.

'I'd rather talk about now,' he says.

'Oh?'

'Yeah,' Steve grins into Bucky's grin as he makes short work of the distance between them.

'Tell me again, I was being ridiculously...'

'Go fish,' Bucky pokes him in the ribs before Steve takes his face in both his hands, angling it for the deep kiss he's got planned.

They fit just right, as he knew they would.

*

The drive back to the Avengers compound is mostly spent in silence – of the type that settles with a fresh coat of snow, unassuming and dear, recalling childhood memories and the marks one is yet to make in the future alike. Steve can see the first footprints Bucky and him have cast onto this blank slate, a new direction.

They're equally quiet once they've reached the loft, Bucky helping Steve to get rid of the tie wordlessly, until they're both in much more comfortable attire – meaning boxers and a T-shirt in Bucky's case and an embarrassingly old-timey button-down PJ's for Steve – and they drift without any manifest intention to the bedroom. Bucky sits against the bedframe, an indecent amount of pillows at his back. Steve chooses to lie down, his arm casually flung across Bucky's lap.

'What's up, Rogers,' Bucky smirks, the innuendo anything but subtle. This gives Steve enough courage to come back with some innuendo of his own.

'How 'bout I show you?'

Steve is certain the very real blush he feels spreading through his entire body (can your _arm_ even blush?) will remove any weight from the mischievous bravado, but Bucky laughs all the same – and he sounds so happy, Steve wouldn't mind embarrassing himself for the rest of his life if it means he'll be awarded with that exact sound every time. He pulls on Bucky's T-shirt to get him to descend from his throne of feather cushions, when he does so, Steve scoots up and half-covers Buck with his body, lifting himself up on his two elbows and letting his face hover over Bucky's.

'One would think you've learned how to be smooth by now,' Bucky sniggers, and it isn't mean or hurt – it's teasing. Steve's breath catches with gratitude for this small shard of mercy – and for the world of forgiveness it hides he can barely comprehend.

'I love you,' he blurts out without meaning to. Bucky closes his eyes, as if to accept the words in their full meaning, unobstructed by visual stimuli. To live in the now of them. When he looks back at Steve, he brings his hand up to the back of his neck.

'Enough talking now,' he barely manages to say before their lips meet.

Steve remembers it all. In the warm light of summer evenings – circa 1935 – face glistening under a fine sheen of fresh sweat, Bucky had glowed like a thrift-store saint against the backdrop of the Coney Island vendors, tatty old straw hat he'd stolen from his old man and a pair of black pants two sizes too big - awkward and endearingly reckless, a boy’s open face on the body of a man. The season had lagged, their shadows slipping one against the other in the heat, with a fever only a summer could hide.

Sometimes it comes back in flashes, in electric jolts; sometimes as softly as waves on a beach, smoothing out the rough edges of the writing in the sand, transforming the writing into something more palatable to them both. Every new inch he discovers on Bucky's body he didn't know was there is a word in a native language he's forgotten, a line in a favorite poem suddenly, fondly, recalled; a crucial detail in the story of his life returned to him. Making love is an orgy of timelines: who they were before and during the war; who they became after Hydra, after SHIELD, after the Accords, after Thanos. After the lake. After the platform in January. Who they are in this moment; all of the them they've ever been, all at once. It's simply, complicatedly, _everything_.

When Bucky removes his T-shirt, Steve trails the side of his face against every inch of skin it leaves exposed. Inhaling the familiar scent, taking in the scars – some of which, he knows, are his own doing. He licks at the bullet holes on Bucky's stomach – ghosts of an ancient fight – as if he could heal them now, after so much time has passed. As if nothing is impossible anymore. Bucky gasps, entwining his fingers in Steve's hair, his breath betraying him once Steve reaches the edge of his boxers and pulls on the elastic, leaving him completely naked.

'Not fair,' Bucky manages to make his point in-between bouts of laughter and what Steve knows he'd never admit to are whimpers.

Steve removes the offensive PJ's in seconds, until he's kneeling astride Bucky's hips, both of them completely naked, overwhelmed by terror: he has no idea what to do next.

'I – I don't...Do you...?'

Bucky takes Steve's hand and pulls him down into a kiss.

'No clue,' he breathes against his cheek after they pause. 'We'll figure it out.'

Steve's not sure they do, in the end – at least not fully, but he doesn't care. It doesn't _matter_ – what it's supposed to be like, what others do – Buck and him find a way all their own, like they always have. And it's desperate, quick and messy; the conclusion of longing and denial stretched thin across centuries – it's words left unspoken to be whispered at the end of the world, to the melody of the last trumpet; it's the love around and between them, the very essence they themselves – along with the world – have tried to push into the farthest recesses of consciousness and failed to extinguish. A force that returns all the more potent for being denied release. They do not sleep, yet with the dawn – they both find themselves changed nonetheless.

A new world, Steve thinks and smiles into Bucky's chest. An _honest_ one. He snakes his arm below and around Bucky, like he's been doing almost every night since their newfound intimacy has allowed him to touch the places he's yearned to press his fingers against for as long as he can remember. And he does - remember. Steve remembers it all.

'What, ' Bucky asks absent-mindedly.

'I've always wanted to touch this. To see how it feels.'

'And how does it feel?'

'Familiar. '

Bucky exhales through a smile.

'You approve,' Steve asks, sounding absurd even to his own ears.

'You couldn’t tell?'

Steve extends his neck to drop a quick peck against Bucky's jaw.

'Close as I've ever gotten to perfect, don’t know about you, pal.'

It isn’t _really_ a question, but Steve still treats it as such. He doesn’t want to flatter, or compare, let alone divulge unnecessary information about his sexual history (if you could even call it that). He does, however, feel moved to say _something_.

'It _is_ perfect,' Steve finally agrees, and it’s not a lie.

It's funny that after so much time in which they both could’ve built this thing up into something unattainable – an effigy of longing, an ideal reality could never touch – neither of them had done so. Or perhaps, it’s even funnier that the ideal – the best of what they could’ve imagined – had always been _this_ , something real, the love between them. Never mind what they’d called it, or how they’d chosen to live it. It had always been there, because it hadn’t been a choice to begin with – love rarely is. It doesn't make us different to admit it – who we love – it is both the origin and the consequence of who we are, Steve thinks.

An inevitability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for the chapter include: implied suicide, mentions of body image disorders, strong language and, well.. allusions to sexy times. I honestly don't know what I should be warning against, given that I've lived most of my life as a barbarian in a country where nothing is off-limits/regulated, but I hope this gives a general gist of things you lovely folks might like to avoid.
> 
> That said, this chapter was *hard* to edit – I have around as many words that didn't make it into the final version as the ones that did. That's to say, we're definitely not yet done with the main plot (the global or the personal one). In case anyone was wondering. :)
> 
> Happy as a clam to hear your thoughts, gasps of surprise, predictions, comments, etc.!


	11. A Fool Doesn't Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last puzzle piece about Cassandra falls into place. Bucky confides in a friend. Steve does, too. Everyone seems to be ignoring the bigger picture, which is fine because this takes place over the span of four days after The Debate. The boys deserve some rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title was inspired by Dan Mangan – I love how [Fool For Waiting](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2h_55Wq4IjI) reflects Bucky's state of mind/feelings in this chapter. 
> 
> Content warnings for mentions of suicide and strong language.

Before he opens his eyes on the wrong side of noon, Bucky can tell Steve isn't in bed anymore. When did _that_ happen, he wonders, but it's only seconds before he realizes how silly the question is. He can't remember _not_ being attuned to Steve's presence. The click of the electric kettle clues him in to Steve's whereabouts now. He giddily picks up the T-shirt Steve had casually flung from the bed last night and takes a change of clothes to the bathroom, in serious need of freshening up before making his way to the kitchen.

After a quick shower, he leans against the sink and stares at the mirror. The steam has made the surface fog up, an almost sparkling silver layer of condensation letting only the outline of his body through. His vibranium arm is invisible in the already metallic sheen of the glass. Bucky waits for his features to emerge from the fog: he gives himself a minute to ponder who it is he expects, or wants, to see. The man who stares back once the reflection becomes clear is simultaneously familiar and a total stranger. The lines around his eyes and mouth more easily attributable to laughing than anguish, his eyes somehow more open – wide and unwavering. This Bucky does not avert his gaze, or follow orders meekly. The arm he'd always found distastefully foreign is now part of the memory in which he clutches Steve's arm, trails the cold fingers over his firm muscles – gently, eliciting giggles and goosebumps – and it is through Steve's reaction, through the memory it has become part of, that it becomes a part of Bucky, too. Not a reminder of something he's lost, but a memento of everything he's gained in its stead. You are not a casualty, a victim, Bucky thinks as his reflection comes into full focus. You are a _survivor_.

Steve is still fumbling with making coffee in the kitchen. It takes him a minute to turn around and look at Bucky, offering a mug across the counter with a shy, yet knowing, smile.

'I was supposed to meet Sharon this morning,' Bucky sighs. Steve nods apprehensively – if he had to guess, she'd already called to make her mock displeasure known.

'Same, with Pepper,' Steve shrugs. 'I promised we'd be over in the afternoon.'

'Mhm. Check the news yet?'

'No,' Steve replies sheepishly. 'I didn't want to..'

'Ruin the day?'

'Something like that.'

'It's gonna be okay,' Bucky tries to comfort him, though he has no clue about the truth of the statement. Steve seems more certain, for once.

'It _is_ okay,' he says. 'It's _already_ okay. Doesn't matter what anyone else says.'

Bucky's incredibly proud of him for saying that.

They lounge around the suite for the rest of the afternoon until it's time to go to their respective meetings. It's domestic, would probably look boring to anyone on the outside looking in, but after the peaks of excitement they reached in the last week, both of them welcome the shred of calm before what is certain to become another media storm. When they reach the lobby of the Avengers HQ, going to their respective meetings, Steve squeezes Bucky's hand somewhat clumsily, and makes an aborted movement forward as if he'd planned on kissing him then thought twice about it. Bucky laughs and ruffles Steve's hair. There's time to talk and figure out just how public they're both comfortable with being.

Sharon is sitting cross-legged on the small black sofa in her office when Bucky comes in, poring over a particularly thick file in her lap.

'Agent 13,' Bucky nods with feigned formality.

'Don't Agent 13 me, Barnes. I know what you did last night,' she raises her eyebrow and shimmies on the sofa to let him sit beside her. He exaggerates an incredulous look before he bursts into laughter.

'I'd never..'

'Aham. I feel like we should talk about you shacking up with my ex at some point, but perhaps not today.'

Though the situation would be uncomfortable with anyone else, something in the way Sharon says it lets Bucky know she's only being half-serious.

'I was there first, you know,' he laughs.

'I know you were.' The look on her face suddenly turns from jest to something akin to affection, or sadness – Bucky isn't sure.

'What,' he asks.

Sharon takes a deep breath and drops the heavy file on the coffee table. That's never a good sign, Bucky knows.

'It's just.. And hear me out, because I'm not saying this out of jealousy – you should be aware of that, at least – I've no interest in _ever_ doing _that_ again,' she lifts both her hands as if the idea is so preposterous. 'I'm gonna say this once, because you're my friend, I think?'

Bucky nods. He finds that the definition fits – Sharon _is_ a friend.

'Yes, well, so – as a friend, it's my obligation to ask you how _you_ feel about all of this. The very public grand gesture. The movie ending. You know, the movies never show you what happens _after_. Have you talked about it?'

Of course, she's right – it's not like it hadn't occurred to Bucky that Steve and him would need to have a proper conversation about the future. At the same time, however, he'd weighed the necessity of communication against simply enjoying the moment in time that had presented itself and found that living in the now had been the right decision, for him. Whatever else happens later – he knows he can deal with. He's strong.

'We haven't exactly _talked_ , but it doesn't matter. We will. It's not like it came out of the blue, you know? I knew what he was going to say – I think I knew before he did, even.'

Sharon scoffs.

'I don't think I'll ever really understand you two. When I was with – when Steve and me had our short-lived affair, if you could call it that – he always seemed so distant. Like waiting for the other shoe to drop, just.. waiting for something to happen. I wonder, if it'd been you he was waiting for. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty though, isn't it?'

'I don't think he was waitin' on me then, sugar,' Bucky shakes his head. Sharon elbows him in the ribs, he suspects, because of the term of endearment.

'Can I ask you one other thing? Just.. one more?'

'Sure,' Bucky shrugs. 'As long as you don't hit me.'

'How do you deal? With the changes? What will you do if he.. you know, goes _back_ , like he's supposed to?'

Bucky has thought about this, as well. Ever since that night in Budapest when Steve had confessed his feelings and they'd started sharing a bed on a more or less regular basis, Bucky had woken up each morning to equal amounts of joy and dread. Except today. It hadn't happened today.

'I can tell you a story a friend told _me_ , once. It's about a ship that keeps getting repaired until there's no original parts left. The question is, is it the same ship.'

Sharon eyes him suspiciously.

'What's the point of the story and how does it connect to my question?'

'I guess the point is, we've both had very different lives, apart and together. But we always recognized each other, after. I think that's gotta count for something.'

'Even if he makes the decision to be old again? Even if he already made the decision once, to leave you behind?'

'I don't think that's what his decision was about, really,' Bucky tries to say the words out loud for the first time, and is surprised that they ring true. 'He didn't know.. that I'd be gone, right? But even so. Even if he had. Steve gave me a choice, now. Whatever decision he makes, I'll make mine. I can forgive. And I choose to do so because he gave me the choice.'

Sharon massages her temples with the tips of her fingers.

'You two, I _swear_. How can you not be pissed off at him? I'd be _really_ pissed off.'

'Oh, I was angry, for a _long_ time. But it didn't do me any good. It's just...better when we're together. I guess that's the most straightforward answer I've got for ya', _sugar_.' Bucky preemptively puts up a defensive hand at his flank, but Sharon just rolls her eyes.

'Alright, then. I'll trust you know what you're doing.'

'Don't get all super-optimistic on me, now,' Bucky rolls his eyes. Sharon at least has the decency to look slightly embarrassed. Bucky hopes he isn't wrong placing his trust in Steve, that his friend won't make him look foolish when all is said and done.

Despite what he's just said to Sharon, he does harbor doubts of his own about the way their relationship will play out once the elections are done. While they're not entirely related to Steve choosing a life – a long one – by his side, the decision will impact the way they live their lives from then on. Whether they take it fast or slow. Bucky knows which option he'd prefer, but he'll leave it up to Steve to make up his own mind.

*

Steve walks into Bruce's lab expecting good news, given that he'd insisted on him visiting as soon as possible and he'd had to reschedule with Pepper – for the second time that day. For once, good news is what he receives.

'We've been working on an antidote – if you could call it that – for those who were hit the worst by the drugs. For the rest, the effects are bound to disappear in time. I think we'll have one in no time.'

'That's great news,' Steve nods. Professor Hulks regales him with an oafish smile, one Steve can't help but compare to that of a child. He's well aware Bruce is an adult man, but there's an innocence about him he'd never noticed before, whether because he wasn't looking close enough or because it was a part of the Hulk Bruce, as Bruce Banner, had actively worked to repress.

'Hey Bruce – I just wanted to say,' Steve says from the door, 'I think Tony – Tony would've been proud of what you've accomplished here. No joke.'

For the first time since he's gotten back to this timeline, or perhaps for the first time ever – Bruce seems to look at Steve and see more than Captain America. Isn't it funny how you can know someone for years, Steve wonders, and not truly know them. How much more there is to each and every one of us, once the masks fall off.

'You didn't have to say that,' he says, all of the childish inflections stripped away from his tone now. 'But thanks.'

Steve nods and turns to leave.

'Hey – hey, Steve?' Steve turns back to find the Professor shifting his weight from one leg to the other. 'He would've been proud of you, too, you know? Even.. even if it's Barnes. I think he would've understood the why, why it's Barnes. It would've made a lot of sense to him, _considering_.'

Steve takes a deep breath and tries _not_ to think what Tony would've _actually_ said, confronted with his final choice of life partner. He isn't as optimistic as Bruce, to say the least, but he appreciates the sentiment.

'See you around,' he says before making his way to Pepper's office.

He wonders why he'd agreed to meet them back-to-back: it makes the ghost of Tony that much harder to avoid, especially when he sees Morgan eating her dinner at Pepper's desk – a future queen if he ever saw one. Pepper directs him to the other end of the room where they can use _big_ words without losing sight of the child.

'What's the news,' he asks reluctantly.

'Same old,' Pepper grins, contrary to his expectations. He hadn't seen her quite as carefree since.. well, since _Tony_. 'I think what you did – it was much better than what we would've had you do. It resonated with people. Maybe not _all_ the people,' she gives him a look that's completely invalidated by her eye-roll, 'but I think it reached those it was supposed to reach. I was wrong to doubt you, Steven.'

'Is that like.. an apology?' Steve laughs, then laughs some more at Pepper's don't-push-it look.

'Bellock is peddling a conspiracy theory about the debate, saying _we_ didn't give her a chance to address the baseless allegations. Imagine that,' Pepper chuckles. 'You'd think _we'd_ be the ones complaining, with how much time _she_ got to present her Barnes and Rogers family album crap.'

'Pepper!'

'Oh, you know you agree with me on this. It was _so_ cheap. You handled it much better than I would've. And to think, she's saying how it's been _easy_ for you, to rearrange the tiles on _the mosaic_ to your own liking. Meaning, to start your life over again, obviously. Who _says_ that?'

Steve isn't sure why the words unnerve him at first, until he realizes – they're _his_ words. From another life, perhaps, but the analogy is definitely the same. It's what he used to say to the people in his support groups.

'I do,' he looks at Pepper with rising horror. ' _I_ said that.'

'What,' she's confused. 'Did you _really_?'

She tries to hide her distaste, and Steve chooses to address it at another time. Because the fucking mosaic – it's beginning to form into a bigger picture.

'Pepper – do you have the photo of Bellock from her graduation? The one Bruce found?'

'Of course,' Pepper confirms, walking back to the desk and her computer. Morgan doesn't even lift her head from the cheeseburger dripping sauce everywhere but the plate. After a minute of browsing through the files in her 'Debate' folder, she pulls up the grainy black and white image full-screen and makes an off-hand comment about 'hipsters that don't use digital' that fails to register with Steve. Because he _knows_ that face. He knows that _girl_.

'Fucking shit,' Steve curses.

'Steven! _Language_!' Pepper nods towards Morgan, who has – by the looks of it – definitely taken note of the new words and added them to her vocabulary for future use. Steve tries to say sorry, but Pepper waves his apology way. 'What is it?'

'I knew her. Pepper, I _knew_ her.'

*

Arranging the meeting isn't easy, Steve can tell as much from how long it takes for Pepper to get back to him with information about the time and place. He doesn't mention it to Bucky, who is for once perfectly happy sauntering about the loft in his underwear, planting covert kisses to any bare stretch of Steve's skin he can find and smirking with self-satisfaction each time he catches him unawares. They need this silliness in our lives, Steve decides, and so he sneaks out of their bed early that morning to make the 5 AM rendezvous without waking his friend.

He meets Cassandra in a run-down diner in Queens, which Steve finds a bit odd, but doesn't question. When he enters the establishment, the waitress gives him a once-over and yawns, her night-shift coming to an end. He could be the Almighty for all she cares, as long as he doesn't make a fuss. Cassandra is already sitting in the corner furthest from the door, sipping on what looks like a strawberry milkshake. The shield is gone, Steve thinks – no power suit to hide behind. With her unassuming dark-washed jeans and a purple cardigan over a black shirt, she finally looks just like the girl he remembers. _Young_.

'Hi, Cassie,' he says, sitting opposite her in the booth.

'Worked it out, have we,' she smirks and takes another sip of the drink through the straw. Steve waves to the waitress to say he won't be needing anything, thank you very much, to her great relief.

'Took me a while, but yeah. I have.' He isn't sure how to proceed, so he just goes with what pops into his mind first. 'What happened to you?'

'Ooff,' she melodramatically lifts then drops her arms on the table. 'What _didn't_?'

'I remember – you had someone, who died in the Snap.'

'Maybe that's my fault, for fudging the truth a bit to be part of the _in-group_. He didn't exactly die _in_ the Snap. He died _because_ of it.'

'Lamar Washington,' Steve nods, quickly picking up on the loose ends, the story beginning to come together. 'Your PI. You talked about a fiancé in the meetings, though. He was a married man.'

'Oh come now, are we really throwing stones here? Who goes first?'

Steve doesn't know how to respond, so he stays silent.

'You _really_ didn't remember me before now, did you? And why should you – I mean, I was just one of the faceless mass of people who turned out to be casulaties, right? People whose skins you got under with your hypocritical mosaic speeches. _Jesus_. I wonder if you ever meant a single word you said.'

'I meant them all, at the time. I couldn't know what would happen, that we'd be able to reverse it. I was doing the best that I could, whether you believe it or not.'

Cassandra stirs the liquid with the straw then flicks it to the side in annoyance.

'That's just the thing. You _reversed_ it. Some people stayed dead, some others came back. You screwed me over _twice_ , Captain, and you tried to pass it off as a victory? So when you ask what happened to me, the truth is – _you_ happened. _You're_ why I'm here. Because I moved on, _Steve_. Isn't that what you told us to do? All of us, from the groups? To move on and rebuild – tile by broken tile? A _fucking mosaic_. But you yourself, you've never moved on from a single thing in your life. Talk about hypocrisy.'

Steve opens his mouth to speak, but he can't find the words. She's not wrong.

'I lost my job. I lost my home in one of those freak electrical fires. My family. My lover. And you know what I did, then? I fucking _started again_. From scratch. Because Captain America told me to,' she laughs though there's nothing funny about what she's saying. 'I didn't really understand you before the debate, I have to admit. I didn't know about Barnes – I thought you were just self-righteous, or stupid, or both. But I _see_ you now, Steve Rogers. _Finally_. And you're no fucking different than me, except that you got a do-over. Or – should I say, a do-do-over? Honestly, aren't you the least bit ashamed?'

'I'm sorry,' Steve says stupidly. He doesn't know what exactly he's apologizing for, but he feels apologies are due.

'He was gonna leave, after that paper came out, _for real_. After it was accepted into Science or Nature, after we'd gotten a good enough grant for the kids to get their college funds and him to be free. But – Snap! No kids, no wife. No grants. He couldn't handle it. _I_ found him. He'd hung... – _I_ found him. Do you know what that does to a person? To see that?'

'I can't imagine,' Steve says, though he has a clue.

'No, you can't. You couldn't, even back then. Didn't stop you from offering advice. _Try again_. And I listened. I got married. I had a family – Hugh was my family. For three years, I had Hugh, until _you_ chose to bring everyone back and then I had _shit_. Lamar was dead, no bringing _him_ back, no – only the vanished. Hugh was out of the picture as soon as he saw his ex's name on the list of the returned. So all of that – running for Senate, helping people, fixing things, starting over? It didn't amount to more than two bullet-points on my CV.'

'I don't think that's true,' Steve whispers, almost to himself. 'I saw what you did, after the Snap. You helped a lot of people. There's nothing we did that could take that away.'

'Oh, _fuck you_. Is that supposed to make me feel better?'

Steve shrugs, because he honestly doesn't know. When he asked Pepper to set up the meeting, it had seemed perfectly clear – what he needed to say, what he wanted to ask. Sitting across from Cassie now, however, is like traveling decades into his past – to a start of a counselling session she was the first to arrive to, like she had a couple of times. He's torn between the need to understand her reasons and offer empathy on the one hand, and the very real urge to scold her for the dozen incomprehensibly despicable things she's done as a parent would, on the other.

'Is this why you agreed to this meeting,' he asks. 'To tell me everything you did is somehow my fault?'

'I have to admit, it would've been, before the debate. But I've figured out a different reason in the meantime.'

'What's that?'

'I want you to tell me how _you'd_ choose. Because you chose for the rest of us, forced _us_ to choose, it's only fair. I wanted to look you in the eyes and ask – now you've ruined my life and all – if you'd indulge my curiosity and say, _who_ would it be? The old flame or the older flame? Carter or Barnes?'

'I don't know,' he says honestly. 'You're asking an impossible question – how I would've chosen _then_. A lot's happened since. I've changed. And you're right, I _am_ lucky. Because I get to choose _now_. I think at least that's pretty clear, who it is. But I'm sorry for what happened to you, I truly am.'

'Save it. It barely makes a difference anymore,' she laughs. 'We're _both_ over. One last thing you took from me.'

Steve wonders how much guilt he should accept. A large chunk is his first instinct, but then there's something stopping him from falling back into that particular habit and shouldering the weight of the world on his own. This isn't entirely on him.

'I think you did that all on your own. And why?'

'The science,' she muses. 'Misery loves company?'

'That's all?'

'What, were you expecting some villainous monologue? A confession? Go figure,' she turns to the window of the diner and looks outside where people are beginning to fill the street. Steve looks as well, wondering about the differences in what they're seeing. 'You wanna know what I think? The Saved Souls – complete losers. Useful, though. The ECU heads? Same. Again, _useful,_ perhaps a bit less so. I never liked any of them, or their politics. But I needed them to prove a point.'

Steve finds this truth even more terrifying than if she'd admitted to actually wanting world domination.

'What point is that,' he sighs, turning to face her.

'Consequences,' she scoffs. 'Figure it out, you're smart. It'll come to you.'

That said, she puts a ten dollar bill on the table and stands up to leave.

'Can't say it's been a pleasure, Captain Rogers, or that we'll be repeating this any time soon.'

'No, I don't think we will,' Steve agrees. He takes another look at her, the two Cassandras now blending into one. It isn't true the shield is gone – he realizes. If his short-lived counselling career has taught him anything, it's that sometimes the gap is too large to be bridged. The layers too thick, glued too strongly to the skin to peel off without injury at once.

'Good luck, Cassie,' he says as he hears her open the door, surprised to find that he truly means it.

*

Steve walks the couple of blocks to the subway – he knows Pepper's driver is expecting the call to pick him up, but he isn't in the mood for company. He wants to walk the streets and breathe in the same air as the people of this city, people like Cassandra, to look them in the eyes – or somewhere thereabouts – to examine the patina of pain and joy on their faces, left over from the time of the Snap and building up until today. There are worlds of differences to unpack, and Steve tries to take them all in – the people who look hopeful or happy, those who look despondent, the sad ones, those too busy to seemingly even consider what they feel long enough for it to show on their faces. Unique experiences he'll never fully grasp, and in the middle of them all – his own.

If he were the old Steve – the Steve from before the the lake, the Steve who first travelled to Budapest – he'd think of a million ways to spin the conversation he's just had with Cassie and make it into another cross to bear, an omen that he doesn't deserve the good things that have happened to him. He'd construct a totempole for the guilt building up in him now; sacrifice all the progress he's made with Bucky – for the fleeting satisfaction of wallowing in self-pity and an illusion of control. Because this is what guilt has served him as, why he's held onto it for so long: the presumption that he _could've_ done better. That his actions had an influence. That he hadn't spent years and years fighting for it to amount to nothing, a mere ripple on a lake.

Steve isn't that person anymore. He knows better, he hopes, to accept justified responsibility without being consumed by it. Without letting it consume the people in his life who did nothing wrong. Like Bucky. When he enters the suite, he finds Bucky is still in his boxers, sitting on the barstool in the kitchen, sipping a coffee. There's a full mug opposite him, waiting for Steve.

'Didn't know if you were coming,' he shrugs, 'but thought I'd make one just in case.'

Where old Steve would've made up an excuse to be alone and left to lick his wounds in private, _this_ Steve chooses to sit on the barstool opposite Bucky and takes a sip of the lukewarm coffee. It almost makes him weep.

'I went to see Cassandra in Queens,' he says without preamble. If Bucky's surprised, he doesn't show it.

'Wanna tell me about it?'

'Yeah, I think I do.'

*

Bucky has never been happier to leave New York and find himself in Éva's company. He thinks a re-run of the conversation about Cassandra is sorely needed, because nodding and inserting a ' _holy fuck_ ' in regular intervals as Steve recounts their shared history doesn't seem like it will cut it.

It doesn't seem like much has changed at first when they enter Éva's apartment, but after the preliminary niceties, settled on the sofa and the refreshments in place, Bucky notices the dark-purple rings around her eyes and the way her hand shakes more than it used to as she distributes the sugar cubes. Her yellow-and-orange patterned dress is on point, as is the over-sized plastic necklace in similar colors, but he can see underneath the courageous attempt at keeping up appearances enough to tell it's all for show.

'How are you really,' he asks when they've finished talking about the debate and Éva has offered her apologies for not letting them know about the depth of her involvement with ECUnity. As if that would've changed anything, Bucky scoffs.

'You are kind to ask, James,' she nods, stirring a second sugar cube into her coffee. 'I am well. I have received death threats before, at least, so it is nothing new.'

'I'd think the global scale would be new,' he answers, not letting her brush it away quite as easily.

'Yes. _Well_. Thankfully, I am not on your twitters or facebooks. I have tossed my telephone in the trash and _voilà_ , nothing to fear anymore.'

'We could get you a protection detail,' Steve tries, even if he knows as well as Bucky that the attempt is futile.

'I am grateful, but it is not necessary. I have the two of you, after all.' Steve nods, and Bucky follows suit. They look at each other – gazes forming a perfect triangle of understanding and friendship. 'Now, I understand there are some other news, about Cassandra Bellock?'

Steve looks over to Bucky, who feigns ignorance.

'I knew her. Before, well, _after_ , the Snap. She lost someone close to her, and then when we brought everyone back, she lost another person. The kid – the young woman – I remember, she was an idealist, you know? A bit intense, but I liked that about her at the time. She really wanted to help.'

Éva is eyeing Steve curiously, waiting for him to slip up somehow. Bucky doesn't know what exactly it is she expects to hear until it happens.

'It just makes me wonder, if she isn’t right about _some_ of it. Shouldn’t I face up to the consequences? To the mistakes we made? Not only for what happened to Cassandra, but also - for changing so many things in the other timeline? I guess what I'm trying to say is, we've all been careless with other people's lives, thinking we know better – me more than most. It ain't right.'

'Did you have a choice,' Éva asks him, softly.

'I didn't _think_ I did. But now? I'm not so sure. If that counts.'

'I am afraid it does not, my dear. This is our curse, yes? To see the shorter, maybe better, roads not taken only once we have climbed the mountain to gaze down from a distance?'

'I suppose,' Steve doesn't sound too convinced, and Bucky can't blame him. 'It's just – I remember watching her interviews on TV, or when Bruce told us about the conspiracy. And I thought – what an awful person. But now I also remember the things she shared with the group years ago, and I can't see her as a villain? Somehow.. I feel responsible. Not in the way she'd have me be, not that, but more of this nagging after-thought – that pain can turn all of us into monsters and we're wrong to think the only way to fight those monsters is to the death?'

Bucky flinches, even though he knows Steve would never think that about him – hadn't thought that about him all those years ago, but the shoe still fits. How do we decide who's worthy of forgiveness, of another chance? Is it only the people we can't live without?

Éva gets lost in thought for a moment, then shakes her head.

'Not all of us,' she finally says. 'Some of us, it makes heroes. I have two living proofs of this theory sitting beside me. It is, like most things are, a choice.'

*

Steve considers Éva's words. Though he wouldn't call himself a hero, the label is definitely true of Bucky. Going through everything his friend had been through and preserving his kindness, his laughter – it's beyond what most people could do. Seeing the worst of the world and deciding it's worth saving. Seeing the worst of _Steve_ , and deciding he's worth loving? There's no excuse for Cassandra, he concludes. There's no excuse for him, either, for not forgiving himself.

Bucky's phone rings, and he downs the coffee in a single gulp before he takes his leave, talking in code about deliveries and whatnot. Éva waves goodbye while Steve doesn't even get the chance to ask if help is needed before Bucky plants a quick peck on his cheek and is out the door.

The room is silent for a long time, until Éva moves from her chair to sit on the sofa next to Steve and puts her hand on top of his, where it's resting on his knee.

'I am proud of you, Steve,' she says. At first, he doesn't realize why the statement strikes him as odd, until –

' _Steve_ ,' he chuckles.

'About time, my dear.'

Steve thinks he understands the mystery behind that other name Éva had given him, and why he'd needed it. They both laugh as they look at each other, holding hands, as if for the first time – Steve no longer sees his superior who can provide him with all the answers, but perhaps, an equal – someone who can help him figure those answers out on his own. Someone who sees him as he is, as he now also sees himself. Someone he can, in turn, also help.

'I'm proud of you too, Miss Stern,' he replies in a raspy voice that threatens tears in the near future. 'We need to talk about ECUnity. Maybe not today, but I'd like to talk to you about it soon.'

'I would be delighted,' Éva nods.

They spend another hour or so in idle chit-chat, until Steve's curiosity about Bucky's early disappearance gets the better of him. He excuses himself and steps out into the courtyard, warmed by the early spring air. Half-way to their door, he stops in the middle of the shrubbery and potted plants which have made a reappearance now that the weather is milder, savoring the hush of a weekday morning and the sensation of sunlight across his face. It's been decades since he's been quite as young and as super-powered: he'd missed the sensitivity of his skin which acknowledges each thin ray individually, combining their soft influence into a singular, indescribable experience. A sum made entirely out of its parts which, taken together, are elevated into something entirely new.

When he enters the apartment, cheeks still warmed by the morning, Steve finds himself just as overwhelmed by the pieces that suddenly melt into a recognizable whole. Whereas previously he'd seen the grey couch, the off-white walls, the white coffee table – he steps into the living room now as if stepping into a very different other story. It has been turned into a room in which Bucky and him live. The nondescript grey couch has been replaced – he doesn't even want to know how, in such a short amount of time – by an enormous L-shaped sofa that isn't shy of being _blue_. The quilt-like blanket he'd bought while Bucky was recuperating is draped over one of the hand-rests; cushions in all imaginable shades of blue and yellow sprinkled in the corners. Steve is so taken aback at first that he doesn't even notice what's hanging on the wall above it – an enlarged print of one of _his_ early sketches, the view from their rented Brooklyn room – turned into a graphic of red, blue and yellow with thick pop art-like outlines in black. The tablecloth is similarly red, as are the cushions on the chairs in the dining room, and a couple of shiny pots holding large cactuses on the window sill.

Bucky appears in the doorway of the hall leading to the bedrooms – Steve simply stares at him then back to the room, then back at him, unable to distill his thoughts into something as pedestrian as _words_. He decides to Hell with them after a minute or so of opening then closing his mouth, and runs up to Buck, lifting him up in his arms and smacking a kiss somewhere in the vicinity of his collarbone.

'When did you even....'

'I work fast, Rogers,' Bucky laughs, nuzzling his face against Steve's hair. 'All your nagging about color and not doing anything about it? It was obvious it was either me who was gonna do it, or it would never get done.'

'You're probably right,' Steve agrees, releasing him from the hug and looking around the place again in awe. There are bits and pieces he notices with each new glance – like the photo Sam had brought to Nat's funeral of their small gang framed on a new shelf Bucky has put up next to the window, or the small prayer book that belonged to his mother leaning beside it. An old sepia photo of Bucky's family. The gramophone Steve bought for Christmas has also found its place, on a dark blue table in the corner. What strikes Steve the most, however, is the still empty space which seems intentional. Bucky has left room for Steve to color it in.

Bucky, unsurprisingly, reads his mind.

'I didn't know if, well, what kind of reminder you'd want. I could only get my hands on very official-lookin' portraits of Agent Carter, and that didn't seem appropriate? But if you've got one or two you like, however many – you can put them up.'

'Can I,' Steve asks, though he isn't sure he wants – or needs – photos of him and Peggy on the shelves.

'She was your wife,' Bucky shrugs. 'I know it, you know it, a photo won't make a difference.'

Steve thinks it does make a difference, however – the mere suggestion means more than Bucky can begin to comprehend. He sits down on the new couch, which is just as comfortable as it looks.

'Thought we'd need something more comfy, with how many geriatrics we're likely to entertain.'

The meaning of the sentence isn't lost on Steve, but he decides not to address it just now.

'It's a good piece of furniture,' he says instead. 'Sturdy.'

Bucky rolls his eyes at Steve's wink and poor attempt at innuendo. Given the lukewarm reception, Steve doesn't push it further. Instead, he looks around the room again and motions for Bucky to come sit by his side. He does, after a moment's hesitation.

'You have that look about you, Rogers,' he warns.

'What look, _Barnes_?'

'The _I'm gonna say somethin' meaningful now and you ain't gonna like it_ one,' Bucky tries to imitate Steve's Brooklyn accent. It doesn't come across as Steve at all.

'I've been thinking, about consequences.'

'God, Steve,' Bucky drops his head into his hands and runs his fingers through the already longer hair. 'You can't be serious, that woman really got you to question everything?'

'No, no, it's not just her. It's more.. coming back and seeing what happened. What we _allowed_ to happen.'

'You didn't _allow_ anything to happen, Steve,' Bucky says, exasperated. 'People make their own choices. Isn't that the whole gist of the problem?'

'It is, no, of course. Hear me out, will ya'?'

'If I have to.'

'You do. You're _stuck_ with me. But I need to say this, alright?'

'Ah, go for it then.'

'For almost as long as I can remember, I've kinda _floated_ , you know? It seemed like I was making decisions, but they were never.. not the right ones, but they weren't _mine_? After Captain America – it was so easy to use that as a shield against everything else, to – to think what would Captain America do as opposed to what Steve Rogers wanted to do. Because there was no Steve Rogers, for the longest time, that little guy from Brooklyn you knew? He was gone.'

'I got that memo,' Bucky snorts.

'But see – it made my life seem... ethereal. Somebody else's. I guess you know better than most how that feels and I hate saying this to you for that reason. I was so wrapped up in the other guy, I never really questioned it, until I got to the other timeline and things started changing around me, and I didn't know how to fix them, or make them better – by making them _worse_. Because it _was_ better, that timeline. It was better for almost everyone, except me.'

'You don't need to say this Steve –' Bucky starts, but Steve shakes his head.

'No, I do. I need to say this, for my own peace of mind. Because you deserve to _know_.'

'Know what?'

'That none of this was ever about _you_. That you, you were – _are_ – the _only_ reason I would ever consider doing this again.'

'Consider, you say?'

' _Bucky._ There are so many people who never got half as many chances as we did. I just wanna.. I need to acknowledge that, somehow. That maybe I don't deserve any more.'

'Don't I? Thought of that?'

'Of course I did,' Steve sighs, pulling Bucky's hands onto his chest. 'Of course you _do_.'

'But?'

'But, I need to say this out loud. So we both know what we're dealing with. I spent so long thinking my life wasn't real, in that timeline – like it was a wish-fulfillment fantasy, and I didn't respect Peggy's choice in being with me, I see that now. I didn't respect my own choice in living that, either. But I did live it. Pegs made her choice, and it'd been me, for some reason, and she lived it, too. And I just want to make sure that you know – you have a choice. Whatever you want, you get a say. I can't promise it'll happen that way, but I wanna know what you're thinking and I wanna know you know it's for you to decide.'

'This is a lot of fucking words to ask me a very simple question you already know the answer to,' Bucky smiles. 'What do you think I want, punk? I want as much time with you as I can get.'

Steve nods.

'I want Paris and Hawaii and fucking Jupiter with you. And.. coffee in the morning, awkward drinks with Sam and Sharon, afternoons with Wanda and Éva, passive-aggressive group messaging with Clint and T'Challa, talking farming? A life, you know? You get that, punk? A whole life, whatever that means for either of us given our stops and starts. I want something that lingers, absurd as that sounds.'

'It doesn't sound absurd at all, Buck,' Steve says, squeezing Bucky's hand as tightly as he can, thanking the Heavens it's made of vibranium because he wouldn't know how to stop now.

'But you know what I want above all else, Steve?'

Steve shakes his head. 'Tell me.'

'I want to _not_ stand under that _fucking_ platform ever again.'

Bucky's meaning is perfectly clear, and while Steve's response is anything but, he hopes it's a start.

'You never had to – I hated that you did, in the first place. So I can promise you without a shadow of a doubt, I'll never ask that of you again.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in the middle of a *very* busy period, so I haven't had as much time to work on this, as you'll likely notice from it not being 8k+ words. I can't promise to be on time for the next chapter either, alas, but I *can* say that if there are any threads left dangling by the penultimate update, I might add another chapter or two to bring it all together – I hope you'll indulge me if that happens. I am well aware of the investment and trust in embarking on a 100k+ longfic journey with a new author, so I would really like to make it worth your while and drive the story to a satisfying conclusion. 
> 
> That said, do share your thoughts, for I dearly love to read them and greatly value the time you take to keep up with the updates! :)


	12. Heaven Can Wait Another Year Or So

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road to (and after) the elections. Everyone has a piece of mind they want to share with Steve. He feels the need to make one more stop before going through with whatever he's decided. There's a surprise waiting for him there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings reflect the M rating, though there's not much detail in this chapter to warrant anything 'M'-like (I think).
> 
> I couldn't not name this for my favorite lyric in [Under the Folding Branches](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oBdgiP0KRYs) by The Veils, because it is, for reasons unknown, my favorite Christmas song that has nothing to do with Christmas, and it also perfectly maps onto Steve's thoughts about Bucky, and Peggy.

Sunday.

The courtyard is quiet, despite the warm weather. There are no lights on in any of the windows, no human sounds. Steve wonders who he is, where he fits into the throbbing, leaking heart of a big city where foreigners used to come to dance and stumble rowdily toward their hotels in the early mornings, bringing life into the sullen quarters. _Demanding_ it.

There aren't many tourists now, they've been replaced by church bells and soldiers patrolling the streets. Steve wonders whether they, too, miss the dancing – he remembers the Commandos, Gabe's easy foxtrot or Dum-Dum conducting an invisible orchestra with his strong arms. They must miss it, he concludes, chastising himself for questioning it: he knows what it's like to be denied the claim to humanity because of a uniform. He should know better by now.

Gloomy Sunday, 4 PM, the rhythm of the Jewish Quarter’s failing step. In the breath between two steps – a slow, steadily increasing hum of a revolution. The calm before the storm. Shop windows once vandalized with hateful messages targeting the Returned have given way to those attacking the government. Conspiracy! Poison! Get out of our heads! Freedom to the people! The irony of it probably being the same authors who'd sprayed the previous messages is not lost on Steve. One can rarely choose one's allies in desperate times, however.

Steve is still not as familiar with the statues or the names of the squares squares as he'd like to be – not to mention the language – but he can whistle this tune. He understands the city more than he knows it; he might not recognize its face, but he sure hears its heart.

Bucky is washing the dishes in the kitchen while he changes the record. When he moves toward the couch, Steve stops him. One hand in another, a twirl, a palm against the small of his back. The intention is clear. They keep out of sight, and out of hearing. We should've danced more too, Steve thinks as his arms tighten around Bucky's back, an old record from the war skipping beats in irregular intervals on the turntable he bought for Christmas, courtesy of its scratches.

'Prophetic, wasn't she, Vera,' Bucky chuckles as the chorus begins.

'Hopeful, more like,' Steve whispers into his hair.

He remembers every time he heard it: in the forties (more than a couple dozen times), after the ice (countless). Who had it been that he'd wanted to _meet again_ , after the fighting – Pegs or Bucky? It had been unclear at the start, but by the time he'd returned from the Alps, he'd known, without a shadow of a doubt: he'd give anything to see his friend once more.

The circumstances of their reunion are all the more peculiar to consider, with that knowledge. They should've embraced back in Washington as soon as the mask fell off, even if Bucky would've hurt him, stabbed him, pummeled him to death – they should've waltzed on the helicarrier with the world crashing around them and kissed for the first, maybe last, time at the bottom of the Potomac. Steve should've made Bucky laugh when he saw him in Bucharest, disregarding the incoming SWAT team – for every time that could've been their last and wasn't, for the pain they'd gone through – there should've been an equal amount of revelry.

'What happens after tomorrow,' Bucky asks.

His voice is small, words perishing before they can be heard properly. Steve understands his fear. They've been skirting around the difficult conversations for days. Bucky hasn't asked, and Steve hasn't offered any conclusions – for reasons having nothing to do with his friend, but Bucky can't know that. Close as they are, they still can't read each other's thoughts, especially on this subject.

'I don't know,' Steve says, deflecting. 'I _hope_ the world will be a little better. Or at least, that the potential for it to be better will be there.'

'What about you and me?'

'We're better every day, Buck,' Steve laughs, but not because he's trying to be funny or sarcastic. He means it if he's meant anything in his life. 'That won't change.'

'Will anything else? This – do you think _this_ will stay?'

Steve tightens his hold yet again, though the music's stopped and they're merely standing in the middle of the room, holding each other in a vise-like embrace. Bucky's metal hand is vibrating slightly against Steve's shoulder blade, a tell-tale sign of where he intends the conversation to go.

'I'm guessing it won't exactly be like this. We both have choices to make, what with Sam back in the public's good graces and the Souls cells gone, more or less. _Brave new world_.'

'Have you even read that book,' Bucky snorts.

'I have, smartass,' Steve tries to act offended. ' _Not_ what I meant.'

'I know, I know,' Bucky kisses his neck and takes a step backwards, motions to the couch. They make themselves comfortable under the new print of Brooklyn, lost in thought as they look at the modernized rendition of Steve's drawing.

'I never thought we'd go back,' Bucky sighs, at the same time as Steve says the opposite.

'I always thought we'd go back.'

Steve's first instinct is to laugh at the coincidence, but something in Bucky's tone stops him. He stares at Bucky, at the way their hands have casually found the way to nestle into the other's. Two sides of the same coin.

'Why not,' he finally asks. He isn't talking about Brooklyn or New York or even the States: this is about more than a place. It's about home, about surviving the war. That isn't the whole truth either, Steve corrects his own thoughts – this was never about merely _surviving_. It's about _living_ in the after.

'I don't know,' Bucky shrugs, turning back to the print. 'It seemed impossible – for a soldier, a sniper no less. With the things I'd seen, done. Thinkin' about that room, the innocence of it. Winter snow that was white or brown, never red. What we shared. Leaving each other clues in stories, in pictures. Sleight of hand admissions, the blink and you'll miss it kind. That was kids' stuff. We weren't kids anymore, by the time you found me in Europe. The world, too, made it very clear it wouldn't be ignored. And I... I didn't want to settle for anything less.'

Steve lets Bucky's words settle before he replies.

'What about now? Think you can settle for this?'

Bucky gives him _a look,_ like he's the stupidest person in history.

'Well damn, Stevie, _I don't know_. Whaddaya think?'

Steve squeezes Bucky's hand, winks, before diving back into deep waters.

'If I stay.. like _this_ ,' he motions to the huge body with the hand that isn't holding Bucky's, 'it won't be the same. Obviously, because –' he motions back to his huge body. 'I.. I won't be _Captain America_ , but I can't be the Steve Rogers you knew, either.'

'And here I was thinking you're still twenty-three and asthmatic. This talk's been a real eye-opener,' Bucky deadpans.

The sarcasm isn't unexpected, but it rubs Steve the wrong way. He's trying to say _something_ – something he thinks is important for Bucky to hear. In all honesty, he's more annoyed at himself for not being able to find the right words, than at Bucky for making fun of those he _can_ find.

'Buck.. I'm not gonna fight anymore. Not for the Avengers or Pepper, not for the US government. I don't know what I _will_ do – but I'm sure about this.'

'And you think it matters to me because?'

'I hate feeling that I'm gonna leave you out to dry. More than that, I hate the idea of you out there without me on your six.'

'Newsflash, Stevie, I spent decades out there without you on my six. Still here.'

Steve doesn't say it wasn't _always_ the case: that Bucky had been gone a very long time; that he'd disappeared in front of his very eyes while Steve stood nailed to the ground', helpless to stop it. The idea of it happening while Steve isn't there to see – however much it had hurt to witness, no matter it had shattered Steve and turned him into a walking shard of glass, a body that had been a sharp edge – it's unthinkable.

'It isn't about you, Buck. It's me I couldn't live with.'

Bucky nods, somber.

'And if I didn't? Fight, I mean. Cause you know, I'm not all that keen on it either. It's just, it's the only thing I know how to do.'

Steve smiles sadly at his friend. He knows that feeling well.

'You can dance,' Steve shrugs. It's only a half-joke.

'James Buchanan Barnes, hundred year-old dance instructor. I can see it.'

'Well, perhaps we can brainstorm a bit more if need be,' Steve laughs.

'What I mean is, Rogers, we're in the same boat. I'm also not.. the guy you knew. You've got a decision to make, too.'

And if Steve's heart hadn't been broken and remade already in countless ways in anticipation of this very moment, it would surely crumble to pieces now, sitting across from Buck after the mess he'd made, after years of searching, yet still being given a choice. _I don't deserve him_ , the thought comes unbidden for the umpteenth time. Steve pushes it down, paints over it with another, conscious promise – _given time, I will_.

*

Bucky isn't completely clueless, even if Steve believes so. He's noticed the silences getting progressively longer the closer they get to the election. The way his friend has been moping around the flat and having half-secret calls with Bruce and Pepper for the last week also wasn't lost on him. So when Steve asks him to dance to Vera Lynn the evening before the 21st century's take on D-Day, he puts all his Winter Soldier training to task not to do something undignified like break into tears and beg Steve not to leave.

After the song and the confusing conversation that follows, Bucky takes Steve's hand and leads him to what used to be his, but is now definitely _their_ room. He kisses him as they walk backwards, dropping onto the bed. Bucky lifts himself up on his elbows to observe the beatific expression on Steve's face – the one he knows will be there by now. The easy, uncomplicated bit of the equation, that makes everything Bucky's been through end up in the positive; meaning: worthwhile.

Steve's blond hair pokes in all directions on the dark blue duvet, a halo. Once, Bucky would've believed it was so in the literal sense – because that's what Steve had been to him: an angel, a saint, a savior. An ideal. All of those roles have slowly been relegated to the dusty drawers of memory. When he looks at Steve now he is, beautifully, only a man. One with more virtues than most, but also – one with a fair share of faults. Bucky doesn't love him _because_ or _despite_ either of these. He loves him, he supposes, why most people love each other: for no reason at all. Or perhaps, because they recognize something of themselves reflected in the other; because the reflection they see in return is brighter, more colorful, than the one in the mirror.

Bucky sees that in Steve's smile now – the smile that's become more brazen since they'd first taken their clothes off and tried to look anywhere _but_ at the other with little success. Steve _looks_ now, so does Bucky: he could look for another hundred lifetimes and not get his fill. Not in the habit of being greedy, he wishes for at least a one.

'What're you grinning at,' he asks against Steve's lips.

'I was just thinkin' of those two boys back in Brooklyn. Or Paris. How I was always so afraid to touch you.'

'Mhm,' Bucky brushes his nose against Steve's. 'Grown up, haven't we?'

'A bit,' Steve laughs and runs his hands through Bucky's hair, brushing it away from his face.

'You mind,' Bucky asks, because he hasn't had a haircut since they've moved and it's half way between the Winter Soldier and sergeant Barnes. 'Not gonna cut it while I'm sleeping and take away my powers?'

'I love it,' Steve shakes his head. 'And I think you'd keep your powers even if you were bald.'

'Perish the thought,' Bucky gasps.

'Over me, you would.'

'Stevie, don't go getting all soft on me _now,_ ' Bucky chuckles.

'No danger' is all the reply he gets before Steve uses the unfair advantage of Bucky trying to think of another smartass reply and shifts their positions.

Though Bucky isn't exactly keeping score (because he's not sixteen), when they finally disentangle limb from limb and crash into the sheets, he can't help but notice Steve had been different this time around. More vocal, more handsy, more _everything_. It's as if he's let go of the last atom of inhibition that had kept him in check, consciously or otherwise. Bucky is grateful for the fact, if a little concerned as to what it might mean.

Before they go to sleep, Steve spooned against his back, he can't stop the words before they're out.

'Why does this feel like goodbye,' Bucky asks the darkness of the windowless room, half-expecting the question to go unanswered.

'Not to you,' the darkness replies. 'There's only one goodbye left between us, and this ain't it.'

*

Election night is anticlimactic, as most things one waits for with trepidation and lives through with little change. Éva is with them in the living room when the final results come in, her red dress and white-and-blue silk scarf a bit on the nose, but a welcome distraction. Steve pops open a bottle of champagne though it's barely past noon. She partakes.

'It's a bit much toasting Rick Jones,' Bucky rolls his eyes, 'but ding-dong, at least the witch is dead!'

They clink their glasses together, cheering, but Steve doesn't look as happy as all that.

'The world's a bit better today, don't you think,' Bucky winks.

'It is,' Steve nods thoughtfully. Bucky sighs in anticipation of what is very clearly going to be a _but_. 'It's just.. I can't help think about the times me or Tony or Nick, everyone at SHIELD or the Avengers – the times we took choice for granted. How little trust we had in people, you know? Not Ross or Cassie, obviously, but – regular folks.'

Éva looks delighted with the conversation starter, but Bucky isn't sure he wants to let her have this one. After all, this goes beyond politics or philosophy – this is all Steve and his penchant for self-flagellation. Before he can put a cork in it alas, Éva has already taken the bait.

' _Trust_ ,' she nods. 'It is complicated. Who we give it to, for what reasons. If those reasons are justified. If we give it because of who _they_ are, or the situation _we_ are in.'

'I'm not sure anyone knew who _we_ were well enough to bestow it,' Steve shakes his head. 'But we didn't give them a choice.'

'Sometimes these is no choice, Steven.' Éva sighs. 'Sometimes we have to let go and let others take the reigns to see another day.'

Deciding to busy himself with something practical lest he get sucked into what promises to be a long-winded debate, Bucky refills their flutes and finds the bottle is almost empty.

'I'm not sure I buy that, Éva, all due respect,' Steve muses. 'We could've asked. There were times when we could've asked, and we didn't.'

Bucky can tell at once this isn't _only_ about large-scale decision-making in times of disaster, or Steve's messiah complex. It's about Peggy, and it's about him – perhaps more than Steve himself realizes.

'Even if you'd asked, don't think it would've changed much,' he intervenes.

'James! You of all people should know the importance of _agency_ ,' Éva frowns at him.

'Does it matter,' Bucky shrugs. 'If it gets the job done, leads to the same outcome?'

' _Of course_ it matters. Because the outcome is _never_ the same, in the way it is represented in the mind. Did I have a say in this? Did _I_ do this? Was this my intention? How responsible am I for what happened?'

Before he can reply, Steve cuts him off.

'You weren't responsible.'

They'd both seemingly engaged in the conversation thinking only of the other.

'Neither were you,' Bucky counters.

'I wish that were true.'

A moment passes between them in which Bucky nearly forgets Éva is in the room. He thinks about what he'd told Sharon – that the very reason he'd accepted Steve was the choice Steve had given him. Before he can expand on that thought, Steve turns away and speaks to Éva.

'I think I agree with you. In my defense – in the defense of all my friends – our intentions were good without exception, but our plans didn't always pan out like we would've hoped. And I've learned enough now, from you, from experience, to know it isn't on me to play God.'

'I sense there is a but there,' Éva smiles mischievously.

'Not a but, _but_... I'm not about to burn myself at the stake for it, either. I used to want to, as you might've guessed,' Steve lifts his eyebrow at Éva's very innocent expression. 'Now – I'm aware I didn't know better. None of us did. Maybe trying to save everyone all the time makes me a bad leader, I'll give you that. But I'm not sure I'd change it.'

'Of course you would not, because you are a _good_ _man_. If you are asking me, that is much more important than being a good, pragmatic leader.'

Something transpires between Steve and Éva this time, that Bucky isn't privy to. He decides to excuse himself to let them transform the conversation they're having with their eyes into words.

'I believe we'll need some unhealthy donuts to soak up the other two or three bottles of champagne I plan to buy,' he announces, getting up from the chair.

'Make sure it's real champagne, not the sparkling Hungarian wine,' Steve the connoisseur adds as Bucky is putting his shoes on. 'That stuff's too sweet.'

'Yessir,' Bucky salutes as he opens the door. His grin lasts all the way to the store.

*

'I need to confess something,' Steve starts after a long pause stretching from Bucky's departure to the shop. Éva is sitting on the couch, having lit a cigarette, looking at him in-between the blossoming smoke.

'I am not a priest, my dear,' she winks. 'But you can _tell_ me something, anything, _always_.'

Steve rolls his eyes but can't suppress a smile.

'You're a real pain in the ass sometimes, you know that?'

'It has been mentioned, once or twice,' she raises an eyebrow. 'I am guessing this is not what you had on your mind?'

'No, it's not,' Steve nods. 'You know how I used to talk about these other old friends I had, when we met? And you'd always say they were idiots?'

The memory of those first few encounters with Éva is precious to Steve, and by the way she looks at him, eyes a tiny bit moist, he can tell the feeling is likely shared.

'It sounds familiar.'

'Well, if I'm being honest, I didn't have friends for a very long time, until you. So the idiots.. the idiot, it was always me.'

Éva shrugs, as he'd known she would, because really – it wouldn't have taken a genius like she is to figure out Steve had only been covering his ass.

'After everything, you believe I did not know?'

'I supposed you did. But I wanted to make it clear.'

'Thank you, Steven,' Éva nods and then, for the first time since Steve's known her, she looks somewhat reluctant to say what's on her mind. It doesn't last too long, the reluctance. 'Have you made things _clear_ with James?'

'What do you mean?'

'Have you told James about what you plan to do, now the elections are over and the world has not ended yet, with only one Captain America to defend it?'

'I.. Bucky knows,' Steve fumbles.

'That is not a yes.'

'You're right, it's not. I just.. I need to tell someone else first. It's not about indecision, I made my mind up a while ago. I guess you could call it.. a courtesy?'

Éva doesn't seem very convinced by his answer. She takes a deep breath (of tobacco), her signature move to foreshadow some truth waiting to be spilled.

'If I may, _Steve,_ my dear,' she starts, sounding a lot like a schoolteacher talking to the class troublemaker. 'You have been given a beautiful gift. To mend old mistakes, to start over. If your plans are anything _but_ clutching it with both hands and never letting go, it will upset me greatly. I hold gratitude in the utmost regard, and to do anything _but_ – it would be ungrateful. To James, to _life_ , but most of all – to _yourself_.'

Steve can understand where she's coming from – she's suffered immeasurable loss, and his ambivalence in accepting a second chance must seem all the more insulting for it.

'I...' he begins to argue, but is promptly cut off.

'Do not say anything now.. I would prefer you to _think_ about it.'

'I was going to say there's no need to think –' he tries again, but is cut off by Bucky's return this time.

'Who wants _champagne_ , and who wants Hungaria sparkles,' he cheerfully holds two bottles up for inspection. Steve isn't the least bit annoyed at the interruption when he sees the smile on his face.

'Hungaria for me,' Éva giggles excitedly. 'I was always partial to _the sweet stuff_ ,' she shrugs at Steve.

'Guess I'll have to live with drinking the fancy one,' Steve mocks her.

'You and me both, buddy,' Bucky winks as he opens the box of at least a dozen donuts on the coffe table in the middle. 'Destiny is cruel.'

'You'll really need to start cutting down on those,' Steve jokes. 'Our metabolism won't always be this fast.'

The look Buck gives him is half questioning, a quarter hopeful and the rest – well. There's definitely suspicion, which Steve figures is to be expected. He'd given Bucky a choice, and though it had been the right thing to do – it had sent him reeling into dangerous what-if territory of his friend deciding not to stay. It's understandable that Buck feels the same now, after telling Steve he _also_ has a choice. Steve wouldn't want it any other way. When he thinks about choice now, he thinks about courage. A chance for people to show just how good then can be, the obstacles they can conquer, how much they can _love_. It isn't some alchemical notion about providence or fate anymore, not for Steve – it is a leap of faith consciously done, with the hope you'll land on your feet. That the others will catch you. He is beginning to understand that unexpected can things happen, and sometimes they are out-of-the-world beautiful, even if they aren't easy. Trusting the world doesn't mean one can't give it a push, however, now and again. It doesn't exclude participating.

Though Steve has done all in his power to convince Bucky that nothing important will change, he's not a fool to believe those vague assertions are enough. As he's just told Éva, however, there is a courtesy call he needs to make, that's long overdue, if he is to truly start over. There is someone else who deserves to hear his confession.

*

'You're sure you don't want me to come,' Bucky asks in the morning while Steve's shoving an inordinate amount of T-shirts into his bag, and not one pair of pants as far as Bucky can tell. For a strategy mastermind, he's always been poor at packing.

Steve now stops mid-action to quickly give Bucky a peck on the cheek and wave his hand.

'I'll be fine. I just need to go through these very boring meetings with Pepper and see Sam, and then I'll be back.'

'You're not seeing Bruce,' Bucky asks suspiciously.

'I'm sure I'll see him too, yes,' Steve tries to play it cool. Bucky can see right through it. He remembers what he'd asked Steve to promise after the debate. He wishes he hadn't. If Steve is really going back to the States to get up on that platform, he wants to be there. He wants as much time with this Steve – the Steve he's beginning to think of as _his_ Steve – as possible.

'You'll come back to me?'

'Of course I will,' Steve smiles. 'I promised, didn't I?'

'Not in so many words,' Bucky mumbles, which amuses his friend and only adds insult to injury.

'Hey, hey,' Steve takes Bucky's chin in his hand and makes him look up into his eyes.

'See you – it's Monday today, so three days makes it... – see you Thursday? Your turn to make dinner.'

'As if I'd let you cook,' Bucky chuckles. 'I'll order something celebratory.'

'Sounds like a plan.'

As Steve puts on his light spring jacket and stops in the hallway to tie his shoelaces, Bucky can't help but trail behind, committing to memory his every movement, every flex of his muscles that shows through the tight blue shirt. It's a bit ridiculous to not trust Steve after everything, but the kind of wounds as they've inflicted on each other take long to heal. Steve had chosen someone else over him once before.

'I love you,' he says as Steve's hand goes for the door knob. It sounds hurried and desperate, and he hates it – at least until Steve's hand drops to his side and he turns to Bucky with the largest, stupidest grin imaginable.

'I love you, too.'

Steve kisses him quickly before closing the door, like he's only going out to the grocery store, like they'll repeat this ritual a million times in the future. Bucky hopes that's true.

*

'To what do I owe the honor,' Steve laughs heartily when he sees Sam sprawled on the sofa of his Avengers suite. 'I've heard _you're_ OG Cap now,' he jokes as he embraces Sam and taps him on the back.

'Bet your ass I am,' Sam mocks. 'Even a man like me is better than.. I'm not sure _what_ you are, and I'm guessing neither is the general public, which only _adds_ to your problem.'

'To the solution, you mean?'

Steve wiggles his eyebrows to Sam's obvious joy.

'Makes sense,' Sam nods. 'I just wanna tell you, _in person_ – the debate? That was some premium television, my friend. My jaw dropped, then it dropped some more, then it got dislocated. They barely patched me up, after, honest.'

'You've already made this clear with all the jaw drop emojis. In the _group_ chat, might I add.'

'I couldn't stop myself. What you did? That was pure, concentrated guts. I don't know that I would've been as brave. I keep thinking about it – like, would I have? I'm not sure.'

'For the right person, in the right moment? I have no doubt.'

'Be that as it may,' Sam shrugs, 'it worked! You're one crazy S.O.B., but it paid off.'

'Not sure I should take all the credit for that,' Steve warns as he takes off his jacket. 'Bruce found the connections with Cassandra and the Souls. Sharon helped. _You_ helped. From what I've gathered, you've busted their network.'

'Yup, days ago. Bruce's circulating the antidotes to the most affected areas. People are _willingly_ taking them. Not sure half of it would've happened like that, if it wasn't for your honesty, pal.'

'There are _some_ people, in case you're unaware, who don't really agree with you. On the upside, you've become far more likeable in contrast, which I never would've guessed could happen, so...'

Sam jokingly punches Steve on the shoulder.

'I'm plenty likeable,' he boasts.

'For people who don't know you, maybe.'

'True as that might be,' Sam eyes him, jest leaving his expression. 'I heard you have a meeting with Bruce lined up.'

'What if I do?'

' _What if you...?_ You know damn well what! What's the endgame, Rogers?'

'Do I need an endgame to see Bruce? Can't it just be seeing Bruce?'

'Not when you wanna talk about the platform, it can't. You know, he's more my friend than yours these days. We _talk_. I bought him Hulk-sized Christmas socks last year.'

'Truly a mark of great friendship. Where're _my_ socks?'

Sam, unlike Bucky, doesn't get as easily roped into banter when he's got his mind set on something.

'Don't give me that, _where're my socks, I'm just seeing Bruce_ BS. Why?'

'If he already told you it was about the platform, then why're you asking?'

'I'm _asking_ ,' Sam telegraphs, 'because - it - is - _stupid_.'

'How do you know it's stupid if you don't know what it's about?'

'We've established it's about THE PLATFORM five seconds ago,' Sam rolls his eyes. 'The perfect Captain America, always doing what's right.'

'Not always,' Steve frowns. 'Not this time.'

'Care to elaborate?'

Steve takes in a long breath.

'Look, I'll tell you, but you need to keep this under wraps, alright? No talking to anyone before I've talked to them, least of all your pal Bruce or Pepper. I've been making a strategy how to approach this for a long time, can't have you mucking it up.'

'Yes yes, cross my heart and hope to die, spill it.'

After he's laid out his plan to Sam, Steve finds his previous complaint about dislocating his jaw more believable because honestly, the way his friend is gaping at him is concerning. It takes him a couple of minutes to get over the initial shock of Steve's confession before he closes his mouth, then opens it again and starts roaring in laughter.

'You're insane. You're completely out of your mind, Steve, but damn do I love you because of it.'

Sam's reaction isn't what Steve would call reassuring, especially when he still has meetings with Bruce and Pepper to go through on the subject, but at least he hasn't said the idea is bad or insidious. There's some hope in that.

*

'I can't say I understand what you hope to achieve, Steven,' Pepper says from behind her desk charmingly splattered with ketchup, remnants of Morgan's lunch, if Steve had to bet. 'But I've had my suspicions before and you proved me wrong, so I'll go out on a limb and trust you on this.'

'Thanks, Pepper. It means a lot. Especially, considering –'

'I _know_ what you're going to say, but don't,' she warns. 'This isn't about Tony.'

'No, it isn't,' Steve agrees. 'It's about doing what we can to set things right.'

'If you say so,' Pepper sighs. 'You'd better not make me regret this. Bruce will be expecting your call.'

'I have another stop to make before, then I'm all his. You've decided to lend me your jet?'

'Of course. I'll find a way for you to pay me back, somehow.'

A couple of months ago, Steve would've been less than pleased with being in Pepper's debt. Lately, they've found that sweet spot of understanding each other that makes him less uneasy to ask for this favor.

'I'm sure you will.'

'The car's waiting outside,' Pepper says, turning to her monitor. 'Please, leave before I change my mind about all of this.'

'Yes, ma'am,' Steve quickly adds and hurries out of the room. He's not sure she's joking, so better not to test it.

Going out of the building, he runs into Sharon in the lobby.

'Hey,' he says, still awkward, though much less than before. He nods to the man walking with her, whom she introduces as Paul. Paul gives her the side-eye, but nods and shakes Steve's hand without argument. 

'Can you give us a minute,' she asks Paul, who obliges and walks over to the elevators.

'What's up?'

'I – I just wanted to say my piece, really.' Steve quirks his eyebrows, but Sharon doesn't move an inch.

'On?'

'On you and Barnes.'

Steve rolls his eyes. At least it isn't bad news about the Souls or the antidote, he tries to reason with himself, though even that would selfishly be preferable to him than having a conversation about _Bucky_ with _Sharon_.

'Look Steve, we made our share of mistakes. I was probably as bad as you at opening up, when I think about it. Professional deformation, if you have to put a name on it. I know it was different for you, and I respect that – maybe you weren't ready. Maybe I wasn't the right person. I _obviously_ wasn't the right person. But what you've done now, with Barnes.. it isn't as easy to take back as a kiss under a bridge and a couple of hook ups across the world. Someone needs to tell you that.'

Steve sighs, exasperated.

' _Everyone_ has told me that. I don't get it?'

'Really? Did _you_ see you, half a year ago?'

'That was half a year ago,' Steve cries. 'I know what I did. _I_ did it, _I_ _lived_ it. Why everyone is suddenly reminding me of this is beyond me.'

'It's because we love Barnes,' Sharon says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. And of course they do, Steve thinks, because who wouldn't? But then she continues. 'And we love _you_ , too. We were there when you came back, as...the _other_ you, and we know what it did to him. To all of us, your _friends_. So yeah, Steve, of course we're worried.'

Steve finally sees Sharon as _Sharon_ , not Agent 13, not Peggy's niece he'd erased from existence in that other timeline. The woman who stood up to Rumlow and all of Hydra after hearing his speech, the woman who had _trusted_ him to be doing the right thing. Did he live up to those expectations? Can he still?

'I need to tell you something,' he says looking away towards the elevators, where Paul is missing the third empty one in hopes Sharon will join him soon.

'What,' she asks shortly.

'I.. in that other life I lived, you didn't exist.'

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes how odd they will probably sound to her; and how perhaps the lobby of one's workplace isn't the best location to divulge that kind of information. Sharon looks at him wide-eyed for a second, then bursts into incredulous giggles. They're definitely more Sharon-the-nurse than Sharon-the-cutthroat-operative, but then perhaps there was never that hard of a boundary between the two – one of the many things Steve hadn't understood about her.

'And you honestly thought I'd care about this? Steve. My life is here, now. _I'm_ here. In no small part thanks to you. That proves my point, though. Nobody cares about that other universe, except you. And _you_ need to let it go. For all our sakes.'

Steve nods, leaving Sharon in the middle of the lobby looking dubious as to whether her words have reached him. He knows quite the opposite is true, turning them over in his mind during the six-plus hour ride on Pepper's jet. He thinks about them still, on the train from the small airport and the tube, having sent the cab driver Pepper had booked for him away, assuring him he would still get his full pay. This is something he needs to do alone. As he walks through the creaky gate and along the narrow path to his destination, he barely notices the tears streaming down his cheeks and into the collar of his shirt.

Reaching the spot at last, he lays the posy of daisies on the crisp, green grass beside the many wreaths and fancy bouquets.

'Happy birthday, Pegs,' he whispers as he taps the marble headstone, warm from the April sunshine.

*

'You're very popular,' Steve smirks as he sits on the small bench at the foot of the grave. 'For good reason,' he adds.

There's a bunch of flowers, but then there are also letters, messages, small figurines of angles, women, gods. Steve can guess what they mean to those who'd left them – they are symbols of gratitude for the doors Peggy had single-handedly opened, and left open, for everyone whose competence had ever been questioned because of things beyond their control. In that way, this Peggy and the one he'd spent a life with were much the same. It started with him, but her compassion, her belief in people – whoever they were – was _never_ exclusive.

After a long time of forcing himself _not_ to think about her – because he'd feared talking about the life they'd shared would somehow hurt Buck, and on the other hand - he'd feared that thinking about her in secret would be akin to cheating – Steve lets himself leaf through the pages in his mind which tell the story of the two of them. How they met, their first kiss, the years he's spent visiting Peggy in the hospital in this timeline, and the other. All the years in-between, the fights, the resentments, the needle-point aimed at one another. Inconsequential, of course, because beneath it all had been the very real love they'd shared. The good moments, so many of them, which had made every year, not only the leap ones, worth living – despite their disappointments.

He's truly loved Peggy, _both_ of them. In every timeline, Peggy had been her own person, whereas he’d often felt like a shadow. He never felt quite up to the job of understanding all that she was – they were oil and water – substances that couldn’t quite be mixed, but still made for a beautiful picture. It’s different with Bucky – they’re the same coin, same mint, same make, same substance. It’s something as natural as to be easily overlooked. Steve doesn’t want to compare the two, because there is no comparison. He still knows that, without Pegs, he never would’ve been brave or smart enough to recognize what Bucky truly meant to him. It’s an unfortunate paradox, but it’s true. 

Love is not a zero-sum game – that's what Éva had told him once, and she was right. Of course he'll never forget Pegs. Either of them. He'd spent such a long time feeling guilty about going back, disregarding the fact that he _had_ given her a choice. He'd told her what she'd wanted to know, and she's chosen him. Every leap year, every morning after a fight, every day. He'd done the same. Now it's time to respect both of their decisions.

Steve inhales the air that smells as green as the grass. Is that even possible, he wonders, in the middle of a city as big as London? No traffic sounds reach him where he sits, no exhaust fumes or rain drying on asphalt. This is a place out of time, and it's exactly where Peggy belongs.

'I'm sorry,' he finally admits to what he came to say. 'You knew – I know that you knew, even when I didn't, and you lived with that knowledge. You _chose_ to live with it. I will respect your choice. I hope what I gave you was enough. It would've been, for me. I'm sorry for a lot of things, but I'll never be sorry for what we shared. I understand that I can't know now – but damn, darling, I hope you weren't sorry, either.'

Steve stands up from the bench and approaches Peggy's grave to say goodbye. His eyes pass over the flowers, notes and letters proudly. That's my best girl, he thinks, before a particular envelope catches his eye. It has _his_ name on it, written in penmanship he's recognize anywhere. After blinking intentionally a couple of times to make sure he isn't imagining things, he approaches the envelope and crouches beside it, hovering his fingers above as if it might disintegrate from a touch. It doesn't, though, when he finally picks it up and returns to the bench, carefully opening it where it's glued in a V-shape, afraid to disturb its contents. There are two sheets of paper inside, folded neatly, filled top to bottom with the same handwriting that was on the envelope. Steve's hands shake as he slowly straightens the pages and begins to read.

*

‘My darling –

I’ve no hope of knowing how this letter will find you, but I hope it finds you well. I entrust it to a very dear friend, one I think you would approve of. We need to work in-between the comings and goings: his, yours, especially _mine_ , so forgive if the writing is fragmented, though I know you are used to it by now.

Every morning, I ask the nurse to put a record I remember we loved on the stereo. I believe it is the first time I’ve listened to some of them in full – Blonde on Blonde, for one. You always had the most unfortunate habit of skipping over tracks you didn’t like in the first five seconds. Then when cassette tapes were invented, you’d make those ‘Steve’ mixes that only had the best songs. I’d tried to teach you that the good inevitably comes with the not-so-good, that you can't skip the boring or the hard-to-listen-to parts to get the impression of a whole. You have to experience all of it. Perhaps I was a bad teacher, but you were certainly a terrible student. I don't think you’ve learned yet, but I hope you will.

I wish you would give yourself the time to learn. We have shared a lifetime that has been extraordinary in its ordinariness, really, for two people like you and I. Knowing what I know about that other life the other me has had, I would not wish to change places. Perhaps it was always meant to be so, or perhaps you made it so. The outcome is the same: I, this me, am glad you did. Perhaps there are things both of us might have done differently, to be happier, to be true to ourselves. I have always known that for you, it was not as easy, leaving what you left behind and not finding that something, or someone, to fill the void in this life. I have never blamed you for your sorrow, or your loss. Please believe me.

We have been, in many ways, a queer pair. We allowed ourselves to grow in many directions, and sometimes – they did not run in parallel. There is nobody I would have rather collided with through life than you. I have never resented whoever else was in your heart, because you are a man who has known to have heart enough for the both of us, and still some – for the whole world.

It is a bit unfair of me to know all of this before you – to not tell you about this discovery, but you are not ready, my darling, and you need to be ready for what is to come. It is going to be difficult. It is going to hurt. In the end of it, I know you will be alright, I trust you will find your way – likely not tomorrow, or next week, or next year. I am not quite as senile. I know you love me, Steve.

If my brain can still make sense of years and calculations, you will have lived through another leap year before you read this, without me. The extra day. I know how I would want to spend it if I got the chance, but I am not going to be there and I hope you don’t spare it more than a moment’s thought. I have no way of knowing who you will become, who you will want to be when that time has passed. So I hope you do what you want to do. Don't be who you think I would've wanted you to be. Or do. Be you, because that is all I ever wanted you to be, since the very first day we met – I have always thought you a miracle. I was not alone in this belief.

The people who hold us in such high regard – they should be cherished. If you remember that, you will have honored my memory in every way.

All my love,

Margaret.’

*

Steve folds the sheets of paper back into the envelope. Of course, he thinks, of course she'd have found a way to do something as unexpected as this as goodbye. He looks at the headstone in front of him and it's curious, though not odd at all that it carries the same inscription as the one his Peggy – the one who'd written the letter – had chosen.

_'_ _Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,  
Every poem an epitaph.'  
T.S. Eliot_

The phone vibrates in his pocket and Steve takes it out: Bruce is calling. He puts it against his ear ready to have the conversation, when someone coughs behind him to announce their presence. Steve turns a bit expecting one of Peggy's fans or a custodian warning against taking calls in the cemetery, but what he is faced with is beyond his wildest dreams.

'I – I'm gonna have to call you back, Bruce,' he says and puts the phone back in his pocket. His mouth is still wide open when the man says,

'Hi, Steve.'

Once he's managed to close his jaw (something he will never again tease Sam about), he swallows and replies, confused.

'Hi... Steve.'  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's an insanely busy time, so I'm actually surprised I managed to finish this before Christmas, and I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> I'll likely have another chapter up before NY's, but I don't want to promise anything because my work deadlines are getting super tight. 
> 
> That in mind, I want to wish all of you a prematurely lovely holiday season whichever holiday it is you celebrate (or don't), and most of all – I hope the next year is at least a *start* in regaining our lives-as-they-used-to-be.
> 
> Super eager for your thoughts about the chapter and your predictions regarding the 'cliffhanger'!


	13. Both Sides, Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve catches up with his other self and finally has some questions about the curious changes in the other timeline answered. The conversation only serves to cement the decision he's made about his future in the current timeline. Bucky and him finally *talk* using words like the grown-ups they are (supposed to be).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apart from being one of my favorite winter songs (yet another that has nothing to do with the actual holidays apart from being used in Love, Actually), I think [Joni Mitchell's Both Sides, Now ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aCnf46boC3I) is simply too perfect for the theme of this chapter not to be stolen.
> 
> There are no content warnings I can think of.

Two Steves exit the cemetery on a warm April day and walk down a backroad in search of a pub. One slows his usual pace so the older can follow, the other hurries not to be left behind the young one. Two lucky cats, it takes them a while to synchronize the rhythm in which their feet hit the pavement. They are the same, but they are, after all, not similar.

Young Steve and Old Steve. Both of them wonder which is which, whether the body takes precedence over the years; or is it the other way around. Does one judge on the basis of loss, or pain, or something more ethereal like wisdom? Happiness? Continuity?

The Steve who is a guest in this world looks over to the one who had been a guest in his, and he wonders about the etiquette of the visit – who makes the call where to go, what is allowed – to do or to talk about? Who gets to ask the first question? Who will pick up the tab? The Steve who is at home – whose home is closer than a universe away – wonders much the same. They are the same person, after all, but even with the tiniest of glances cast to the man strolling beside him, he can tell that they are not _similar_.

'What's going on?' The host finally asks, not a little worried that the man who is and isn't him has come with a warning of some unforeseen consequence of his dalliance with time; that he is to be taken away; at once, once and for all, without even a chance of goodbyes.

 _It's what you'd chosen – did you really think there would be no consequences_ , he hears the once familiar voice in his mind, an octave or so lower. A voice he would've once recognized as his own, but no more – now, it belongs to the intruder.

'It's not _that_ kind of call,' the guest replies in the exact same voice Steve knew he would hear. He adds a compassionate pat on the back for good measure.

'What kind of call is it, then?'

Guest Steve nods toward a painted sign hanging above a wooden door to their right – _The Butcher & Baker_ – signaling that they should cross the street.

'A _social_ one,' he chuckles. No doubt recognizing the disbelief in Steve's stare, he clarifies – 'Peggy wanted to make sure you got her letter.'

'You're the trusted friend?'

'Can you think of a better one?'

'A few now,' Steve replies.

'I'm happy to hear that,' Guest Steve nods thoughtfully as they reach The Butcher & Baker. 'After you,' he winks.

Steve leads the way and settles them in a small booth at the back of the pub, by the window. After some deliberation, both order pints of the pub's brew. Steve offers to fetch them from the bar, being the physical junior at the moment.

'Does it affect you yet?' he asks as he lowers the heavy beer mug in front of Guest Steve.

'Somewhat,' his companion shakes his head. 'Nowhere near like before the serum.'

'It gets better,' Steve laughs. 'Or _worse_ , depends on your proclivities.'

'I don't mind,' Guest Steve shrugs. 'I enjoy the taste. It reminds me of –'

'1943,' Steve supplies. 'Furlough with the boys.'

Guest Steve nods jovially, the faintest shadow of sorrow across his smile. Steve is immediately ashamed for bringing it up. When he thinks about his sins against this other Steve, it's always Peggy's face that comes to the forefront of his mind: he'd robbed him of that dance with the partner that had meant so much to him, in his youth. But that's not all he took – Steve suddenly realizes – he also kept Dum-Dum, and Gabe, and Morita to himself. Dernier, too, on the rare occasions Peggy and him had visited Paris, which truth be told he could count on the fingers of one hand. Steve could never get away from Bucky's shadow there – it was so neatly sown onto his own that it followed him through the cobblestone streets long after the sun would set.

' _L'amour fou_ ,' Dernier had once said when he caught him staring at a fountain in Les Tuileries, losing track of their conversation. ' _Mais encore?_ ''

'What do you mean?' he'd asked, pretending not to understand. He must've known. Dernier had shrugged and squeezed his arm, then continued talking about his three daughters.

I took that from him, Steve thinks looking at Guest Steve with a blooming sense of compassion. He'd been Guest Steve, once.

'I'm sorry,' he apologizes, knowing full well it's too little, and definitely too late. 'I didn't mean to – I hadn't thought things through. When I left, or – when I came, to that timeline. I'm sorry I took your life from you.'

'It's been a long time,' Guest Steve brushes it away. 'They all lived to be happy old men, and that's all I ever wanted for them. But you know that.'

'I do,' Steve nods. 'So, you saw Peggy?' He asks the obvious.

'I did. Many years after I got out of the ice.'

'How –' Steve begins, figuring it isn't impolite to ask. How did you get out? How are you alive? It sounds better than asking why, at least.

'How did I get out of the ice? Howard, of course. How did I get here? Tony.'

' _Howard_ found you? _Tony_ knew? And they never..'

'You gotta give it to those Stark men. They sure can keep a secret.'

' _When_? When did you get out,' Steve asks needlessly, because judging by his apparent age – it must've been very close to when he'd himself appeared in the timeline.

'1950. Howard found me, by chance really. I think he'd half given up on me to be honest, though he'd never have admitted it.'

'And you didn't think to contact us? Me, or Peggy?'

'To what end,' Guest Steve asks with the same smile he had while talking about the boys, only there's no shadow of sorrow there anymore – it's replaced by a mysterious air of mischief. 'You had your life with Pegs already. It wasn't on me, to intrude. I helped Howie out on some missions for a couple of years, top secret of course, and then I decided to take on a mission of my own. I was never bored, if that's what you're thinking. Quite the contrary.'

'It was you – _you_ broke into the SHIELD facility and stole the data I gave them.'

'Bet your ass I did,' Guest Steve laughs. Steve doesn't find it the least bit funny.

' _Why?_ ''

'You really gotta ask?'

Steve doesn't, and that fact – coupled with the cheeky grin on his counterpart – makes his blood boil.

'We had an op ready. I'd worked on it for years. We were going to save him.'

His words are short, his voice strained. Guest Steve looks at him defiantly across the pint he's just finished, as if daring him to continue. As if saying, did you really think you could take _him_ as well?

'Well, you weren't quick enough, what can I tell you? I got to him first.'

'And you didn't think I would've wanted to know? I spent.. I spent _decades_ following dead-end leads and seeing ghosts around each corner. Did Howard not tell you? Could you not have guessed?'

Steve doesn't mean to be angry – after all, in the balance of sins they've committed against the other – it doesn't take a genius to know Guest Steve is by far the more innocent out of the two. He still has the decency to look compassionate, Steve finds, though he doesn't look _sorry_.

'I didn't have to guess, I knew. Of course I knew. I'm you, remember? And I figured, from everything I'd read in the files about your life, not that many things were different. But it was...complicated.'

' _Complicated_ ,' Steve repeats, incredulous. 'Enlighten me, then.'

' _Steve,_ ' Guest Steve warns, done with playing nice. 'What do you expect would've happened? The life I had – it didn't seem like something you'd have wanted to get involved in.'

'After everything,' Steve stares into his beer because he can't stand the sight of Guest Steve looking all smug and righteous. 'After everything you read about me, you truly believed that?'

Guest Steve finally betrays an ounce of embarrassment.

'Perhaps not. Perhaps I didn't _want_ you to get involved in my life. You'd already made your decision. _My_ decision.. I couldn't risk what I had for your peace of mind. Much like you didn't give _me_ a second thought, I'm sure, when you decided to return to the past. We are, both of us, selfish. Or haven't you figured that out?'

At last, his double says something Steve can understand. He glances away from the golden bubbles of beer to the other side of the table, where the fingers of Guest Steve's hands lay interlocked on the dark red surface of the cherry wood table – Steve notices the wedding band at once. And even though he knows that the choices afforded us make forks at even the smallest turns, blossoming into an intricate web with countless dimensions that defies human understanding; that predestination is a silent prayer found on the lips of those unable to control the direction of their lives, or else an inevitable bias of a mind in need of order flung into the chaos of reality, there is no doubt in his mind as to who has the twin band around their finger.

And of course, Guest Steve is right, in more ways than he can probably imagine. The selfishness he referred to, Steve feels it down to his very marrow now as he thinks about the life they might've shared, him and the other Bucky. It's ridiculous, he understands, not least of all because he can have a life with _his_ Bucky now – has one, even – and isn't it positively outrageous to want two of the same, to feel jealous of a person who already loves you, for loving... well, _you_? Is this what love is, Steve wonders, the mad love Dernier had spoken of no doubt in relation to 'the Sarge' and not to Peggy: wanting to lay claim over all versions of the object of that affection: all they ever were, are, will or could be? Does Guest Steve feel the same?

He isn't quite ready to find it out. Instead, he stands up to go to the bar and get another round, then circles back to the less loaded questions he'd like to know the answers to.

'What did you do, then? After? You said you worked for Howard at first, but then...not?' 

Guest Steve tries to pretend he didn't notice Steve eyeing his ring. He takes a deep breath, as if preparing to embark on a long tale spanning decades of adventures. In the end, he exhales and goes through a bullet point list without much detail.

'After I got Buck away from the Soviets, we spent a couple of years just moving around. Figuring out how to remove the programming. Dismantling the Red Room, quietly. We kept going back to your files, to what you'd told SHIELD about Thanos. Finally, we decided to do something about _that_. Howard wasn't game, so we went to see the Ancient One, and she helped us help her collect the rest of the stones.'

' _You_ collected the Stones?'

'With Buck,' Guest Steve smiles. 'Out there in the stars. Who would've believed it.'

'But the tech..'

'I don't think you realize how many doors you opened when you came back with that intel. I daresay Howard wasn't very honest with you, or with Peggy for that matter, about his progress.'

'Why?' Steve frowns, looking up at Guest Steve again, to find the expression he knew he would. Pity.

'Because he _understood_ ,' Guest Steve says comfortingly. There isn't an ounce of resentment or derision in his tone, no judgment. Steve wonders how it's possible for them to be the same person and still have such different reactions. 'I did, too, after I stopped being angry, I _understood_. The things you'd gone through... You'd chosen a different life. A quiet one. It was the least I could do, to let you have it, after what you'd given _me_.'

'What's that,' Steve asks, simultaneously confused and aware of the answer.

' _Everything,_ ' his counterpart says, nearly moved to tears. Steve is surprised at the sudden burst of sentimentality. 'You gave me the opportunity to choose, too. To not be afraid what the world would think of my choice. To be Steve Rogers.'

Steve knows something about how that feels, even if he never got the privilege of choosing in private. Dots keep connecting in his mind, one at a time, and the picture is almost crystal clear. There's only a final piece missing.

'You and Buck.. I saw you, didn't I? The two of you, I thought I saw you once when I went to visit Peggy.'

'That's likely. We used to visit frequently, when we could travel to the States, after she'd signed herself into the nursing home. She was just like I remembered, even then. I loved her so much, I was surprised that time hadn't changed it. We both loved her, really. Bucky and her together, they were something else.'

'I used to visit her too, in the nursing home when I went out of the ice here. I know what you mean. Time didn't change her one iota.'

Even with his newfound dislike for including things such as destiny or any kind of determinism into his reasoning, Steve can't help but think it strange how the timelines had found a way to fold quite perfectly against one another, despite his meddling. There had always been a younger Steve to visit his best girl. There had always been a Bucky for each version of Steve, and vice versa.

'I don't know about that. She was different from the Peggy I knew. Whether it was the years or you, I can't tell.'

Steve considers the statement for a moment – he isn't sure whether it falls in the positive or the negative. Then his mind drifts to a detail in the previous sentence he hadn't paid much attention to.

'You said _when_ you could _travel_ to the States? Where were you?'

'Budapest,' Guest Steve laughs. 'Not a place you would think to look.'

'Wouldn't I,' Steve finally laughs as well. 'I live there, too.'

Guest Steve's face betrays a moment's surprise. He shakes his head and takes a swig of the fresh beer. Steve is sure it's a silly question, but he asks it anyway.

'Did you ever meet Éva? Éva Csillag, or.. Stern, maybe?'

Guest Steve lowers the mug at once and stares at him incredulously.

'You know _Evie_? Emm's Evie?'

'Emm?'

' _Magda_ , Emm. Emm and Evie, they're our best friends! You _know_ them? In this timeline? That's incredible. They'll lose their senses when they hear about this.'

Steve fidgets in the leather chair, unsure of how to break the news.

'I'm afraid I only know Éva, or – Evie,' Steve says. Thankfully, it's enough for Guest Steve to get the picture without further explanations.

'I see. Well, in _our_ Budapest, they're both still kickin'. We've known them for decades, they were our first neighbors when we moved.'

' _Your_ Budapest,' Steve smiles.

'Yes,' Guest Steve returns the smile. 'I suppose it's different than your Budapest.'

'Seems to be,' Steve shrugs, knowing full well he wouldn't switch places if he could. Would Éva?

'Do you want me to tell you about it?'

There's something about the question that seems eerily familiar, until Steve remembers his first conversation with Sam after returning to this timeline. His unwillingness to talk about the life he'd had. His _shame_. Guest Steve has no such qualms. He seems open to interrogation, to sharing. The same, but not similar.

'Was he – or _is_ he – is he _happy_?'

There's no need for extra words to qualify the pronoun. Both Steves know whom it refers to.

'Yes,' Guest Steve says without a second's hesitation and not a little mirth. 'He _is_ very happy, as far as I've been told.'

'And you – you found someone,' Steve finally finds the courage to bring it up, motioning with his chin towards the ring.

'There was no searching,' Guest Steve replies with a grin. 'But you know that already, don't you?'

Steve nods solemnly, the jealousy he'd felt half an hour ago evaporating, replaced with 4th of July fireworks bursting in his chest. _In every timeline_ , Bucky had asked. It wasn't a question, even. He'd been right. They would find a way to each other in every timeline.

'We have a daughter,' Guest Steve continues, unable to stop himself. 'A young girl we saved from the Soviets back in the early nineties. Her whole family was dead so she stayed with us for some time, and then, well, she stayed with us for good.'

'A daughter,' Steve gapes in awe. He's not sure how to process this information.

'Yeah, can you imagine?'

'Not really,' Steve admits. Out of curiosity whether _all_ things _always_ click into place, he asks for her name.

'Natalia,' Guest Steve says in a reverent tone that tells Steve all he needs to know about the kind of parent he is. 'Buck calls her Nat, and of course, whatever _Buck_ calls her, she goes by. She's a dance instructor now, of all things. They wanted her for several national ballet companies, you know, but she wouldn't do it – she wanted to teach. She has a good heart, Nat, involved in so many projects with kids who can't afford the tuitions. Much like Buck, really.'

'A dance instructor,' Steve repeats in-between awkward coughs trying to disguise the oncoming tears. Guest Steve can't be as easily deceived.

'You _knew_ her, here,' he part-asks, until something clicks in his mind. 'My God. _Natasha_. The Black Widow, your fellow Avenger. You really think...?'

'Yes,' Steve sighs, wiping a tear from his cheek.

'She –' Guest Steve begins, pained, but he's interrupted at once.

'She's your daughter,' Steve smiles. 'A dance instructor in Budapest. Don't go chasing alternate pasts and futures you'll never fully get the hang of. Believe me – been there, done that. Doesn't work.'

Guest Steve looks simultaneously stricken and relieved.

'Did she have a good life, here – before? Your Nat?'

Steve isn't sure how to answer the question: he'd asked himself the same a thousand times and never came up with a satisfying answer. He tells Guest Steve the only truth he has.

'She had a hard life,' he says. 'Worked for various shady organizations as a spy, I'm sure you read those files.' Guest Steve nods, each drop of the chin seemingly causing pain. 'That's not the important thing about Nat, though, never was. Or maybe it is, in the way it made her careful – she rarely let people in. Showed her _real_ self. But with the people she _did_ – _when_ she did – well..' Steve shrugs as if the rest of the sentence writes itself, and it does – for him. That flash of orange in the night. The Chesire cat grin. The scent of the ocean air. 'She was tough and practical, but never without compassion. She loved her friends. After the Snap, she was the one who kept the team together. Working tirelessly, always working. She was also funny as Hell, in the same way Buck is – dry and sarcastic. That was one of the first things about her that told me we would be friends, actually. She kissed me once on an escalator, and it was hilariously bad. She was a loyal friend. An amazing warrior – one you'd want on your side. She was also incredibly soft with Clint's kids, who called her Aunt Nat.' Steve thinks what else there is to say, and realizes he's missed the most important of all. 'She was loved.'

It's apparently Guest Steve's turn to not-cry, because he gazes to the right through the window, as if a most incredible scene being played out on the empty street has caught his attention.

'Thank you,' he says once he's regained control of his voice. Then, 'Do you believe in fate?'

'No,' Steve surprises even himself (the self who gave the answer) with the speed with which he replies. 'Not in any supernatural sense, at least. But I do believe that the choices we make reflect who we are. You and me? I guess we're the same, so the choices we've made – give or take – are also the same, they've lead us to the same people.'

'Do you truly think so?' Guest Steve asks, unconvinced.

'No,' Steve laughs. 'We're not similar at all. My friend – Evie, actually, from _this world_ – she would say it's about experience. How it shapes you, how it changes some things, though it can never change the essence. In essence, I suppose we're carbon copies, but in everything else.. not. It depends on what you put more weight on, what you think is more important or comes first. The chicken or the egg. The person, or the choice, or the person we become become after that choice.'

'And where do you stand in this debate?' Guest Steve nods thoughtfully.

'In the middle? I've come to appreciate our never-ending ability to change, as of late. It seems to me, a lot of choices I made in my life came from someplace different.'

'Trying to be _him_?' Guest Steve says more than asks. Of course this wouldn't come as a surprise.

'Yes, to a point. Or trying not to be Steve Rogers. It seemed, at times, the world would have little use of him. But I don't think that anymore.'

'No, I can tell,' Guest Steve smiles warmly. It's odd to think of him as a senior, but Steve still does – it has nothing to do with his appearance and everything to do with how settled, how calm he's been through this difficult conversation.

'What about you?'

'Me?' Guest Steve shrugs and shakes his head. 'When you took on some of the things in my timeline, I suppose you also made way for new ones. I never felt that pressure, as I imagine you did, or as I did – during the war. But with that freedom came the uncomfortable question of what it was that I truly wanted, of who Steve Rogers would be after Captain America.'

'You liked who you found?'

'I did. He wasn't that different, to my surprise.'

'The fight,' Steve says darkly.

'Not the fight for the sake of fighting, though,' Guest Steve shakes his head as if to dispel Steve's imminent brooding. 'The fight for a better world, for the people I love. Sometimes it wasn't even that, it was simply standing up and saying something. Helping, whichever way I – we – could. Raising Nat, giving her a home. Helping Buck find it, too. Helping _him_ help _me_ do the same. A circle of hands one gives and is given in return. Even without expecting reciprocity.'

'That sounds like a good life,' Steve smiles, semi-comforted that if this iteration of him had managed it, there is hope left for him, too.

'Do you mind if I ask _you_ something, then?'

'Shoot.'

'Is he happy?' Steve chuckles hearing his own question turned back at him.

'I think so,' Steve says. 'I _hope_ so. It's more complicated than it was, for you. For _your_ Buck.'

Though the sting of the word remains – Steve finds it has infinitely lessened in the last hour or so. Hearing everything he has from this Steve – he can tell he is the right Steve for the version of Buck he'd spend decades searching for. It is good he hadn't found him. This Steve, that Bucky - they seem to have helped each other achieve just what he'd always wished for his friend – they'd had a happy life. Together.

'And you.. this –' he wiggles his ring finger, 'it doesn't surprise you?'

'Not in the least,' Steve laughs.

'You don't know how happy I am to hear that, Steve.'

'Did you – do you want to see him? _This_ Bucky?'

It takes a lot of restraint for Steve not to call him 'his' Bucky, a fact his friend would no doubt not appreciate. Though he feels somewhat insecure about 'his' Bucky meeting this Steve, who he thinks is the far superior model, even if somewhat more weathered at first glance, Steve thinks it's only fair to extend the offer, after all.

'You know, I thought about it, I won't lie. I talked with Buck about it. Asked him if he wanted to come along, even.'

The answer he gave is clear in Guest Steve being the only one sitting in the pub now, and Steve feels the slightest pang of – what? Rejection? His companion notices the second of pain that contorts Steve's features and shakes his head.

'He was very curious, of course. Perhaps a bit guilty for never getting in touch, as was I. But when I asked him why, he said he knew himself well enough to know that this other him wouldn't appreciate the intrusion. That he'd written his story already, _ours_ – that _your_ Bucky deserved a blank slate to do the same.'

Steve figures it makes a twisted sort of sense, given his reaction to the thought of this Steve and his Bucky meeting. So many versions of them, he smiles to himself, and through all the differences their lives have been – the one thing that is set in stone is the desperate longing for the other, the overwhelming sense of – not ownership – but a sort of kinship that demands everything and leaves no part of the other unloved, no uncharted territory for somebody else to claim as their own. The tip of his nose, Steve lists in his mind, the scarred flesh where his collarbone turns to steel, the way a single strand of hair on his right seems to curl against the tide of his long mane no matter how much pomade he applies, his cut-off sentences before morning coffee, the last breath that always carries Steve's name on its crest before he comes, the defined triangle on the small of his back, his leather jacket he insists looks better on Steve, the way he looks at Steve as if he were a wisp of air still – something intangible that can be blown away by a harsher breeze.

He's suddenly overwhelmed by the need to go to him – to see him stand in the flesh in the doorway of their house, their home; to take Bucky's hand and put it on his own chest and say – I am sturdy, don't you think, a tree with roots that go as deep as the core of the Earth and this heat you feel under your fingertips, it's travelled all that way for you, darling. As long as I can remember, I knew your roots were intertwined with mine; I felt them tug and pull at me underneath the surface since before time itself, since before I was me, before you were you. We grew from the same seed planted in the dense, hot iron at the beginning of the world – we sprung up like lava – this is why we've never managed to wound each other beyond repair, because we are made entirely out of the same fire.

Just like that, the last sliver of resentment toward Guest Steve is gone, and though he'd love to know more about his life, he finds he's getting jittery, eager to go back to the States and have his meeting with Bruce so he can return to Buck at the promised time. Perhaps even slightly _before_ it.

'Did you tell Pegs,' he asks a question that had been on his mind ever since reading the letter and finding out it was Guest Steve who'd brought it.

' _Tell_ her? Had you met your wife?' Guest Steve raises his eyebrows.

'Fair enough.' Steve coughs a bit, preparing to ask the infinitely more difficult question.

'Did she – do you think she thought that I – that I wanted –'

'Yes,' Guest Steve confirms with apparent ambivalence, 'though she didn't have any qualms about it, in the end. It came as a bit of a shock at first, but it was obvious she'd already suspected something, had a gut feeling so to speak. Afterwards, on the good days – her and Buck were a scream. Seeing them like that, together – it was no wonder why I loved them both. No wonder you did.'

Steve feels slightly sorry to have missed witnessing the friendship between Peggy and Bucky, but on the other hand – he'd gotten so much time with her as opposed to Guest Steve that it hardly seems fair to complain.

'Did you tell her? That – that you loved her?'

'Of course,' Guest Steve says a bit shyly, unsure of how Steve will take the news. He's relieved when Steve smiles, which gives him the courage to go on. 'I hadn't needed to, though. You'd spent your lives together, Steve, she knew.'

'She said as much in the letter,' Steve nods. 'Or have you read it?'

'I wouldn't have dared,' Guest Steve chuckles. 'Wouldn't put it past her to jump out of her grave just to give me a talking to.'

'That's Pegs alright. Listen, I hate to be rude,' Steve begins and he can tell his companion gets the hint at once. 'I have a meeting to get to before I go back home, and I'd like to get to it sooner rather than later. Someone's expecting me.'

Guest Steve nods, though he looks as if there's another, final question balancing on the tip of his tongue. Steve widens his eyes and cocks his eyebrow, a sign to go ahead.

'By the looks of it, there was a mission waiting for you here,' he starts carefully, motioning to Steve's youthful appearance. 'I wonder, have you made any decisions about the permanence of this change?'

'I have,' Steve nods. 'A while ago.'

'And I suppose there is nothing I can say to persuade you one way or the other?'

'I don't think so, no,' Steve agrees.

'That's fair,' Guest Steve sighs. 'Then I hope it is the right one. For you, and for Buck.'

'I hope so, too,' Steve grins.

They down what's left of their pints and Steve leaves a couple of pound notes Pepper has given him on the table, pretty sure it's more than enough to cover double of what they've ordered. They stand up at the same time with the same shrug of the shoulders, then laugh at the newfound synchrony. Walking back out into the street, Steve turns to face Guest Steve and offers a hand. Guest Steve smacks it away and pulls him into a tight embrace.

'I'm glad we've finally met,' he says. 'I heard a lot about you from Peggy, and I read even more about you in those files. Between the lines. I guess there's no time like the present I'll get to say this – but I've always admired you. After I stopped being angry, I was grateful. That you'd kept going after...everything. That because of what you'd done, my life was what it's been. Thank you.'

Steve isn't sure how to respond. He always thought the other him would resent the life he'd had with Peggy, the quiet of it – the ordinariness. But this Steve doesn't seem to mind in the slightest. When he finally steps away from the hug and looks at him, he gets a clue as to why – he is the very picture of a man with no regrets.

'Thanks for brining the letter,' he says. 'Do you need.. like, a place to stay or something?'

'No, I have more than two curious individuals who will be interested in what transpired here. But I appreciate the offer, I really do.'

'Alright. Well...' Steve doesn't know what he wants to say. There's nothing more to be said, except goodbye.

He is surprised the word doesn't slip from the tongue easily. The truth is, he likes this Steve – there's a camaraderie between them he hadn't expected to find when he first saw him. Then, out of the blue, he blurts out – 'Will you tell Bucky I said hello? And Nat? If you think that's okay, will you tell them... just tell them hi?'

Guest Steve's smile turns into a grin at once.

'Of course. And I don't think I would be wrong to tell you they will both return the greetings.'

Steve nods, motioning to the right of the pub, towards the tube station.

'Alright then. I'm going that way.'

'That's me,' the other Steve points to the left.

Steve wonders what one says to oneself, expecting never to see oneself again. He draws a blank. Then, his mind turns to what he would wish for a dear, old friend and it isn't as difficult to find the right words anymore.

'Take care of yourself,' he says. 'And Buck, and Nat. And Emm and Evie! Have a great life, Steve.'

Guest Steve looks relieved, probably having had the same dilemma.

'Take care of yourself,' he repeats. 'Stay true to who you are, and everything else – it'll work itself out. Trust me on that. I know.'

Guest Steve winks and taps him on the shoulder, then turns to walk in the direction of whatever he's going towards. Steve turns to the right and does the same. It takes more than a little willpower not to turn – To wave again? To beckon and say he's changed his mind, that he wants to hear more about the life he's had? – but he doesn't. This isn't Guest Steve's story, Bucky had been right: it's his, and he doesn't need any assurances from a different future. He will live the best way he knows how, he will make his own decisions. He will see Bucky before this day is through.

When he turns the corner, he takes the phone out of his pocket and calls Bruce.

'Sorry for the interruption, Professor,' he starts. 'I can be with you in seven hours, will that do?'

'Yes yes, no problem, Steve,' Bruce's excited voice comes loudly through the speaker. Steve moves the phone a couple of inches away from his ear, cursing his super-hearing. 'I'm expecting you!'

'Thanks, Bruce. See you in a bit.'

If he'd wondered whether he was making the right decision before, the conversation with Guest Steve had made him certain of it. The fight isn't always what one expects, Steve muses as he makes his way down the stairs. There are people who deserve infinitely more than the cards they've been dealt. Bucky is one such person, but there are others. With the power to tip the scales, even a little bit, in his reach – Steve can't find one good reason not to. He has been given a hand – many hands – to help him along. He has received the most precious gift there is. It would go against everything he is, not to share it.

*

The meeting with Bruce has been what Steve would consider a success. Once he steps onto Pepper's private jet to go back to Budapest, he's surprised to find himself anxious. What will Éva think? What will Bucky? He replays all possible reactions to the plan he's set in motion, and finds himself especially dwelling on the bad ones.

 _After everything that has happened, you still do not understand_ , imaginary Éva chastises him.

 _Why didn't you just tell me what you were planning, pal_ , Bucky asks.

Both ghosts are justified in their demands, and Steve tries to think of ways to answer the questions in advance, to prepare for the inevitable attack and pacify them. He doesn't get much further than ' _I'm sorry, but..._ ' by the time the jet has landed. A driver is waiting for him, it's still early afternoon. As they pass across Erzsébet bridge and drive along Rákóczi út, Steve catches a glimpse of a shop window and asks the driver to turn around for a quick stop. The man does so after some huffing and puffing about one-way streets, but he is mollified by Steve's speed in purchasing the item that had caught his attention.

'We can go home now,' Steve tells the cabbie. Though the man has no idea about the magnitude of the statement, oblivious to the fact Steve hasn't had a home on this Earth for a century – he has the address, which will do.

They park opposite the building and the cabbie helps him take out the boxes from the backseat, haphazardly placing them one on top of the other onto Steve's outstretched arms. He then helps some more, typing in the code to the front door to let Steve inside.

' _Köszönöm_ ,' Steve yells from behind the tower of packaging, unable to turn around and thank the man properly.

Each step he takes with his left leg is a backward turn of the clock, each one he takes with his right – a foot closer to a future he's never thought could exist, but is clear as day. He sees the light on in the window of the living room, thankful Bucky's home. In all the commotion before his departure, he'd forgotten his keys (and a second pair of pants).

With no way to actually open the door, his arms being otherwise engaged, he bumps his shoulder against it a couple of times, hoping it isn't locked so that the old latch bolt will give way. It does just that of its own accord (they should _really_ get that door replaced), and Steve steps into the air of freshly washed bedding, cigarette smoke and laughter. He's home.

*

Éva has just made a crude joke – one of those he's never heard her utter in front of Steve – when a thud on the door followed by it opening alerts Bucky to the presence of an intruder. He keeps laughing while his vibranium hand assembles into a fist, ready for an attack, should the situation require. The bumbling and fumbling coming from the corridor, followed by a curse, sets his mind at ease. After so many months, Bucky sniggers, he still can't remember the exact position of the shoe rack.

'Sharper left,' he yells to Steve's vocal displeasure.

'I _know_ , _thanks_ , I'm just trying to maneuver with the..'

Bucky finds he's perched on the edge of the couch, nervously waiting for Steve to come into the living room. ' _Let me see you,_ ' he repeats in his mind over and over, ' _show me you're who I hoped you'd be_.' Though his voice still sounds the same, Bucky needs to see him, touch him even, before he can let himself believe in the best possible outcome.

Finally, a body emerges from the corridor, holding a huge package that obscures the face. But oh, Buck could recognize those strong hands anywhere. They're the hands that left ghostly traces along the muscles of his stomach, the fingers that had ignited every last nerve in his spine: they're _his_ Steve's hands, that have held him through sleepless nights spent staring at the walls of their room painted by the dark, thinking he would never be enough. The hands that had promised the opposite, and made good on that promise now. Before he can stop himself, he jumps up from the couch and collides with Steve, with the boxes, actually, quickly shuffling to take some of the weight.

'What even is this?'

'A present,' Steve laughs behind the cardboard.

They put the boxes down on the floor and Bucky can finally confirm that this is, in deed, _his_ Steve. Pushing the boxes violently to the side with his vibranium arm (to Steve's great chagrin), he throws himself into Steve's arms with little elegance, thankful for the wall behind them.

'I promised, didn't I,' Steve whispers into his hair.

'Shut up,' Bucky counters, kissing upwards from his jaw and finding his lips.

'My boys,' Éva squeals in delight, abandoning all sense of propriety. ' _My boys_. I am _so_ happy.'

Bucky lets Steve go, reminded there is, in fact, a third person in the room with them. He loves Éva to bits, but right now – he really wishes she'd get lost.

'You do realize we're both older than you,' Steve smirks. He's a little offended by the gaiety in the greeting – it's as if neither of them had actually believed when he said he'd come back.

'You certainly do not look it now,' she winks.

'What're all these boxes,' Bucky asks, trying to regain a sense of composure.

'I got it wrong, last Christmas,' Steve says sheepishly. 'I thought I'd correct that.'

'What do you mean, got it wrong? I love the turntable!'

'Yeah, well, we're living in the _now_ ,' Steve shrugs. 'And in the now, they have these sets of speakers I can't begin to understand, but have been told they connect to you phone, laptop, whatever you want – perhaps even the turntable. I thought we'd try and have a bit more sound 'round here, perhaps without the skipping and scratching of old records.'

Bucky stares at Steve, who stares back and simply says –

'Help me unpack it?'

'Yes, let us have some music,' Éva claps her hands.

'You get first pick,' Bucky winks at her, overcome with more joy than he'd thought possible. So much so that he forgets he'd wished her gone only a couple of minutes ago.

*

After requesting what seems to Steve as a whole back-catalogue of Hungarian folk music, Éva finally decides it's past her bedtime. At 7 PM, it seems a laughably hollow excuse, but nobody says a word. Though they've touched on the subject of his visit to the States, Steve hasn't divulged his meeting with the _other_ Steve quite yet. He'd like to hear what Bucky thinks first – it's a conversation for the two of them alone. More than that, he isn't certain whether the news about the other Éva and Magda, the what-if's people who don't have time-travelling superhero friends only guess at wistfully, would be welcomed or cause more pain than it is worth.

He wonders the same of Bucky, but concealing the meeting from him is out of the question. Steve tries to choose his words as carefully as he can, to find soft ones imbued with the unwavering conviction that he no longer cares about that other timeline, as long as they are together in the here and now.

Bucky is unusually quiet as he nestles into the space where Steve's neck meets his shoulder, breathing softly against Steve's chest as he recounts the meeting with Guest Steve to the backdrop of Vera's greatest hits playing from his laptop, clear as if she were there. When Steve is finally finished talking, Vera's is the only voice to be heard for a long time.

'Is that what you'd want,' Bucky asks, sounding pained. Steve hadn't anticipated it, or had at least hoped his mindful retelling of the conversation would make it clear that Bucky, as he is, is what Steve wants most of all.

'Which _that_?'

'A _wife_ , or a _husband_ – and a child? Is that what you want? Of your second chance?'

Steve hadn't even thought about it in that way until Bucky brings it up – after all, 'the child' had been Nat and he'd just been glad to hear she was alive somewhere else, doing something else than laying her life on the line every day in an attempt to make up for sins she'd long made amends for.

' _Bucky_. No, that's not – that's _them_. It doesn't have to be us. It _can_ be, but it doesn't have to. Buck, you surely know, you _must know_ –'

Bucky's breathing seems to come faster against Steve's neck and his hand grips at Steve's side more forcefully as he interrupts.

'Because I don't think I'm a person who can do that, Steve. Have that.'

'What do you mean? Of course you _can_ have that, Buck. You can have anything you want.'

'Well, I don't _want_ to.'

Steve isn't sure what to say to that. He'd never even considered having children before Guest Steve had told him about Nat – not even with Peggy. But then, he'd also never thought of getting re-married, though that seems less complicated than the children part. Despite the new possibilities Guest Steve has opened his eyes to, though, he knows one thing beyond the shadow of a doubt – whatever it is he wants, it is nothing that would not include Bucky by his side.

'Tell me what you want, then.'

Bucky's flesh hand comes up to Steve's chin, angling his head to the right to quickly peck him on the lips.

'You,' he whispers. 'Us. Just us.'

'Buck,' Steve begins, remembering what he'd meant to say when he was interrupted. He'd been walking on eggshells – talking around them, too – for the last month or so, until things had settled after the debate and he'd had a chance to visit Peggy. Until he was _sure,_ beyond any doubt whatsoever, that he could be who Bucky deserved. He doesn't need to keep these thoughts to himself anymore – can't help voicing them, anyway. 'This isn't _my_ second chance. Or, well – it _is_ , but I wouldn't want it, without you. This body, this world – the time I've bought with Bruce's help? It means nothing if it's not for us.'

Bucky tenses up against Steve's body for a moment, then relaxes so suddenly it startles Steve. He uncoils himself from Steve's arms and sits up to look him in the eyes, though he keeps the palm of his flesh hand firmly against Steve's ribcage.

'Alright,' he nods. There's no smile on his face as Steve would expect – the only emotion he can read from the set of Bucky's jaw is intense determination. 'I accept,' Bucky finally adds with a grin. While Steve is relieved to see the attempt at humor, something in what Bucky had said earlier still rubs him the wrong way.

'You wouldn't want that, though? That other life? I don't mean now, I mean – in general. Changing places, all that?' He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Bucky playfully jabs him in the ribs.

'Seriously,' he says fondly. 'Would I trade you in for a newer model? This stunningly and painstakingly decorated apartment for a castle? You must be crazy, punk. After everything that's happened to us – the _both_ of us – we deserve to be happy _here_. No sci-fi, magic mumbo jumbo. Just us, as we are.'

Steve wiggles his eyebrow, looking down at himself and then back at Bucky who chuckles.

'No _more_ mumbo jumbo,' Bucky amends.

' _About that_ ,' Steve sighs and Bucky instantly goes from looking pleased to wary. 'We need to talk about the reason for my visit with Bruce and Pepper... Before you get any ideas, it wasn't about me, what you see is what you get, alright?'

This seems to at least soothe Bucky's fear, though it doesn't do much for his obvious confusion.

'I can already tell it's a stupid idea, otherwise you would've told me before. Spill it, Rogers.'

'I was thinking of giving our friend a present, similar to the one we got. Well, _me_.'

Bucky stares at him for a couple of seconds with a frown, then his lips curve upwards into a smile as the last piece of the puzzle clicks into place.

'You punk,' Bucky laughs in disbelief, then scoots closer on the couch to kiss Steve. 'This is why,' he whispers against Steve's cheek. Steve doesn't need to ask what it means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed a tiny bit about the timeline of that other universe from the file I'd uploaded a couple of chapter back – so if any of you had read that – do excuse me. It makes more sense to me this way time-wise, because I'd first had the comics timeline in mind for Nat, whereas here it's more in line with the MCU and fits better with the story overall. Or so I hope. 
> 
> Am super thankful for all your comments last year, and excited what you think about the story as it's wrapping up now! Wishing everyone a very joyful 2021!


	14. Bookends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A (mostly) Bucky-centric chapter where we go back to the scene of the crime on the lake and some happier, new memories replace the painful, old ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought [ Simon and Garfunkel's Old Friends/Bookends ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6YpK-qrGQrg) was an apt song to steal the title from. It just suits the scene of Steve and Bucky talking at the lake so well! 
> 
> There are no content warnings for this chapter (I can think of).

**Professor Hulk's Emotional Address To The Global Community: You Are The Heroes**

Bruce Banner aka Professor Hulk – everyone's favorite Avenger – sat down with Conan O'Brien late Thursday night to chat about unmasking Cassandra Bellock and ease the public's concerns about the new Capgras antidote.

After what must've felt like a class in Advanced Biochemistry to most of the audience, Conan managed to steer the conversation away from science and towards much more pertinent questions, such as how many tacos the hunky Professor can eat (fifty-three is seemingly where he'd stopped, by no means the maximum), where he gets his bespoke purple suits (Pepper Potts has an incredible tailor) and how his fellow Avengers took the news about a certain former Captain's choice of life partner (happily, how else?).

These crucial issues resolved, the Professor also addressed plans for rebuilding the Hall of Heroes, severely damaged in the terrorist attack by the now neutralized terrorist group, Saved Souls, on New Year's eve.

'We're taking the chance to correct what we might've gotten wrong the first time around,' he said with a smile. When asked what that might be, he treated the audience to his signature wink and explained the new museum will have a stronger focus on the heroic and selfless deeds of the 'ordinarily-powered' citizens rather than members of the Avengers.

At Conan's amusement at the term 'ordinarily-powered', the Professor turned uncommonly serious and ended his appearance by explaining the use of the word.

'If the last year – the last six years – have showed us anything, it's that everyone is capable of being a superhero. For us, it's our job – so to speak. Isn't it all the more _fantastic_ , Coco, when people without any special abilities risk their lives, invest their time, to help strangers they've never met? I think that deserves to be recognized.'

Needless to say, the applause was deafening – both in the studio and across Twitter where three separate hashtags began trending in a matter of minutes after the show finished airing. There wasn't a dry eye left in the room, the country, or the world.

Professor Hulk's words and optimism are exactly the balm we've all needed after the often confusing and traumatic events of the last eight months.

(Mary King, BuzzFeed News, April 17 2024)

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*****

'Who would've thought _Jones_ would have the spine to threaten World War Three,' Bucky huffs, impressed, after turning the volume down on the news. 'Or is this four? Five? Are we counting the aliens? The robot?'

Steve sighs exaggeratedly and returns a withering stare after managing to reign in the smile that threatened to show itself for a second. Bucky is pleased.

'Maybe we were wrong about him,' Steve says cautiously. Both Éva and Bucky raise their eyebrows. ' _Okay_ , maybe not. But at least he's helping, even if only to get re-elected or inflate his own importance.'

'Things are looking up,' Éva nods. 'I wish I could live to see them get truly better.'

An uncomfortable silence descends on the room – she'd never been one to get maudlin. Steve and Bucky stare at each other meaningfully, Bucky twitching his head a millimeter or so and slightly widening his eyes. _Talk to her. Now is the time_ , he tries to telepathically urge Steve, who looks unsure.

'These break-outs from the camps,' Éva continues, for once oblivious to the exchange happening in front of her nose. Not oblivious of the other thing, apparently. 'You would not know anything about that, would you, James?'

Bucky shrugs, the picture of feigned innocence. He might as well have both his hands dripping with honey, swearing he has no idea who broke into the pantry and ate it all.

'Steve and yours truly have only been doing menial tasks for your little band of rebels,' he grins. 'Throwing some boxes around, that sort of thing. All very proper and _legal_.'

'Very proper in deed,' she laughs, eyes twinkling with mischief once more. 'I am proud of you. Both of you,' she turns to Steve and lightly squeezes his hand. 'Even if you still make dreadful coffee, my dear. I suppose this is my fault.'

Steve rolls his eyes at the weak insult before his face grows serious. _Go for it, Stevie_ , Buck adds his tacit encouragement.

'I – we,' Steve motions toward Buck, 'have a proposal we'd like you to entertain.'

'Oh?' Éva's face alights with curiosity at the businesslike tone.

'We would like to give you a gift,' Steve continues. 'Before I say what it is, though, I want you to promise you'll consider it. _Really_ consider it.'

Éva assures him she will, perplexed, yet conspicuously eager to hear what it is.

'I want to give you what _you_ gave to me,' Steve gravely announces and Bucky can't help but giggle at the opacity of the statement. He remembers all the times they'd tried to broach the subject of comings-and-goings before his friend's trip to the US – it's no wonder Bucky had feared he'd never see him again. Steve's _really_ bad at expressing himself. Not wanting to stay in the room meandering towards the point for another two hours, Bucky decides to intervene.

'We want you to come to New York with us and get an injection of the hi-tech, sci-fi Botox Steve's gotten,' he clarifies. Éva stares incredulously, first at Steve, as if unsure she's gotten it right, then back at Bucky.

'Why?' She asks, astonished. Bucky looks at Steve, who's been expecting this question – he knows – as well as he knows he still hasn't come up with a convincing response.

'Because we can,' Steve shrugs, looking all of sixteen years old. 'Because I think it will be a good thing? Because I want to.'

Bucky can't begin to parse all the emotions the reply stirs in him – how happy he is that Steve once again trusts his own judgment; how incredibly lucky he feels, seeing Steve being Steve again – the boy who'd made it his mission to save the world, one person at a time. What a privilege he is to witness, the man who's succeeded.

'I do not know what to say, my dears,' Éva bursts into simultaneous laughter and tears. 'You have managed to surprise me, I fear.'

'That's easy,' Bucky interjects. 'Say yes.'

*

It takes them a month to sort out the potential legal issues and transfer Éva's considerable assets to her long-lost 'niece' from Austria. For once, the pandemonium caused by the Snap works in their favor, and the documents are easily obtained. Bucky makes it his responsibility to train her in the way of the international spy-craft, going through the backstory each day and asking trick questions over coffee to make sure she remains vigilant to the lies she'll have to transubstantiate into the truth from now on.

'It's not gonna be easy,' he comforts her after a slip-up about her parents, 'especially not in the beginning. But you'll get used to it, in time. You'll find a way to _make_ it true. Add little essential details here and there, so it still _feels_ like you. That's the most important thing.'

'In another life, James,' Éva says in awe, 'I swear we would be colleagues.'

'I doubt it,' Bucky is pleased by the compliment, however distasteful he finds the idea of picking around other people's brains after being on the receiving end of the same.

They sit in amiable silence, each consumed by their own thoughts while waiting for Steve to return with the last of the documents and information about the minutiae of the plan, until Éva raises her head, suddenly observing Bucky.

'Yes?'

'What did you choose to keep?' She asks. 'To make it feel true?'

Considering the almost impertinent smile that follows her inquiry, it's obvious she already knows the answer.

'Sly old fox,' Bucky responds.

'James, is that any way to talk to your senior?'

'You're not gonna be my senior for long,' he quips.

'Indulge me, then, one last time?'

Bucky takes a deep breath, surrendering to the conversation.

'The details I chose to keep,' he repeats the prompt. 'I didn't have much say in it, to be honest, not like you do, not at first. It was a matter of what I was left with, after everything else had been stripped away. The smell of Brooklyn winters: home. A fevered, sweaty hand clutched in-between my own: youth. Iron residue crumbling from a railing, sticking to my palm: Paris. The taste of iron in my mouth: war. A pair of blue eyes inches away as the rest of the world turns to fire: salvation.' So far, it seems that his list is unsurprising. 'I picked through that rubble of memories, trying to find one that felt like... _me_. Just one, something indispensable, something impossible to live without.'

Éva looks at him expectantly.

'And, what was it you saved?'

' _Myself_ ,' Bucky replies to her obvious delight. He knows she'd expected a different answer, but she seems all the happier because of the surprise. 'Everything, and nothing. The small part of my mind that remained untouched, the part that had recognized Steve. I saved the sliver of the person left behind, who'd experienced those memories. His point of view.'

'James,' Éva whispers, putting both hands against her chest, across her heart. 'You are as much of a person as I have ever had the pleasure of calling friend.'

'Thank you' Bucky says, seconds before the front door creaks and Steve pops his head into the room from the hallway.

'We're on,' he says with unconcealed glee. 'Pack your bags, Miss Csillag, Mister Barnes.'

'That's _Sergeant_ Barnes to you, _Rogers_ ,' Bucky teases, jumping to his feet and quickly kissing the top of Steve's head while he's crouching on the floor, untying his shoelaces.

'I hope you're ready to move, _Sergeant_ Barnes,' Steve lands a quick peck on his cheek as he stands up. 'We leave 8 AM sharp.'

*

'Where are all my pants?' Steve moans rummaging through his duffel bag. Bucky throws him a pair of dark-washed jeans he magically recovers from his own bag, having anticipated this moment.

'You didn't take any,' he supplies.

Steve thanks him, as if Bucky packing _his_ pants is the most natural thing in the world.

'You coming?' He asks, noticing Bucky's state of undress.

'I've said my goodbyes, well – my see-you-laters. I'll be around.'

Steve nods, understanding.

'Alright. I'll come find you, later.'

'Deal,' Steve leaves in a hurry, but not before kissing Buck on the lips in passing. Neither of them really acknowledges the action – it's become as natural as breathing, as saying 'thanks' or 'later'.

After Steve's departure, he swaps his pajamas for an ensemble of black jeans and a black T-shirt, finally stepping out from the clinical atmosphere of the facility into the morning countryside air. The forest is on his right beyond the patio and small garden, it constricts his view. He knows even without seeing it that the lake is hidden behind the tall oaks perched on top of the hill, can almost _feel_ its presence. To his surprise, it isn't an ominous presence at the back of his mind this time and without explicitly deciding where he's going, his feet take him in its general direction.

With each step, he contemplates the differences between then and now; the man who'd made that mile-long journey last October and how that day has reverberated through his life since. Like wildfire, like the softest breeze, like a necessary storm before a rainbow can appear. The main takeaway from the back-and-forth memory jog is not what he'd thought it would be. Yes, Steve and him have finally stopped acting like complete idiots and have begun to carve out a place for themselves in this world.

More than that – Bucky himself doesn't feel out of place. Before there was a Bucky-and-Steve, James Buchanan Barnes had been reborn – he'd been given, _no_ – he'd _given_ _himself_ – a new lease on life. He might've still been homeless, until they'd made their home in Budapest, but he hadn't felt displaced anymore. He'd formed his own intricate web of connections, found the people who tether him to his new life one way or another. He'd known beyond the shadow of any doubt that he was where he should be, that he was himself. Steve wasn't the last piece of the puzzle that had clicked into place, like he'd expected him to be – they're a whole new, beautiful puzzle in their own right, waiting to be discovered.

He needn't look for proof of this concept any further than the last two days they've spent in the States. Sharon was the first to come around and say hi, almost immediately, with Paul in tow. Bucky distrusts him almost as much as Sharon distrusts Steve.

'He's so _Californian_ ,' Bucky told her. 'How can you live with all this... _enthusiasm_?'

'Oh, easily,' Sharon replied, not in the least insulted. 'I have _you_ to rain on my parade.'

She'd stuck her tongue out, cocking her head towards the kitchen where Steve was, very vocally, preparing spaghetti Bolognese with Paul's non-assistance. Fair enough, Bucky concluded.

Wanda visited with Sam the next day, who'd gotten take-out and, remembering Bucky's irrational dislike of lamb, brought a separate package with chicken kebabs for him instead. Wanda then spent the night in the spare bedroom, speaking in Russian with Bucky long after Steve had gone to sleep. In the end, she'd switched to English almost unknowingly, playing with the red bursts of energy in her hands as if juggling.

'What is it like,' she asked.

'What's what like?'

'Getting him back.'

There was something infinitely sad in the way she spoke those words, which made all the hairs on Bucky's flesh arm stand to attention. It's the kind of sadness danger trails behind, he realized, but didn't have it in himself to lie.

'It's good,' he shrugged, wondering how much to disclose. Aware that his face would probably tell her all she needed to know, he supplied – 'It's everything, isn't it?'

Wanda nodded thoughtfully, her eyes suddenly avoiding his.

'Will you tell Steve –' she started, then waved the rest of the thought away. 'Never mind.'

'Hey, kiddo –' Bucky tried to keep the conversation going, though he could tell by the set of her shoulders that whatever dilemma she'd had had been settled. 'Would you like to stay with us for a while? Sure could use some help with... _box moving_.' He wiggled his eyebrows conspiratorially.

'Thanks, but I think... I need to do something. Finish something, on my own. Before I can have what you found with Steve.'

'I'll miss you, kid,' Bucky said, embracing her tightly. He sensed they wouldn't see her for a long time, but his gut also told him they eventually _would_ see her again. ' _До свидания_.'

' _До свидания_ ,' she smiled, her flaming red hand cold against his cheek. She was gone by the morning.

This is what consumes Bucky during his walk, so much that he's almost startled when the blue line of the lake emerges in front of him. He'd thought that despite his newfound peace of mind, he'd still find it at least strange to be back at the scene of the crime, so he stands at the edge for a bit, waiting for emotion to hit him. When it doesn't come, he makes his way to the bench and sits down on the same spot where he'd found Steve months ago, observing the peaceful surface of the water.

*

'Are you ready?' Steve asks needlessly, judging by the glee on Éva's face. She already looks younger.

'I was born ready,' she laughs.

'That's my lady,' Sam grins as she ascends to the platform, patting Steve's hand away as he tries to help her up.

'You understand she could be your grandmother, right?' Steve asks when he returns to the console where Sam is looming over Bruce as he fiddles with buttons and dials.

'Pot. Kettle. Black,' Sam rolls his eyes.

'Touché.'

'One, two, three and we start on four – alright?' Bruce shouts, more loudly than his usual Professor Hulk volume, as if Éva is simultaneously too old and too foreign to hear (or understand) him. She nods, graceful as ever in her red, poppy-print dress.

Bruce counts down. Steve feels a churning in his stomach. Images flash before his eyes. One. January. _I wish you wouldn't look away from me, damn it_ , he thinks as Bucky turns away. Two. The scent of decaying reeds by the lake. _Where is home, Buck? What is it?_ Three. The flutter of his heart as Bruce presses the final button and looks up, though Steve can only see it from the corner of his eye because his gaze is fixed on Bucky, and he can't look away, but all the while he's praying – _Please, Buck. I can't do this if you keep looking. Please, stop looking_.

The memories are old, crusty – they disintegrate under the weight of the current moment – an unambiguously happy one. Steve doesn't even realize he's looked away until the buzzing is over and Sam audibly gasps, then claps his hands for good measure. He is surprised to see the same two eyes looking back at him, the smile is also, unmistakably, Éva's.

'M'lady,' Sam runs up to the platform, extending his hand.

'Captain,' Éva mock-curtsies and takes the offered hand to descend.

'Already not good enough for you, ha, being just Steve?' Steve asks with a pretense of hurt before she flings herself into his arms and gives him a peck on the cheek.

'My just Steve, let me look at you' she says ending the embrace, her hands still clutching his arms. 'Let us look at each other.'

They do. Steve is, perhaps unfairly, in awe of how beautiful she is. He'd expected her hair to be lighter, more like the silver he's used to – but instead it's startlingly black, like a vacuum that's absorbed all other colors into its tight curls. It makes her face seem somehow smaller, paler, peering through the darkness and straight into your soul. There's a tinge of sorrow mingled with his overwhelming joy when he realizes he won't see her laughter lines in a long time, if ever again. Is this what it had felt like for Buck, Steve wonders and though there are many words that need to pass between him and this new Éva, many things he would like to discuss and help her with, he is overcome with the need to find Bucky immediately. He'd said he'd be around, and Steve thinks he knows exactly where.

'Go,' Éva winks, reading his thoughts. Some things, Steve is relieved to find, never change. But then – hadn't he known this already?

'I'll catch up with you later. Dinner!' Steve quickly replies. 'You too, Bruce. Come over for dinner. Sam will get something delicious.'

'Hey, what do you mean Sam will –' Sam protests, but Steve's out of earshot before he can elaborate his misgivings.

The first leg to get outside of the main compound area, he finishes in mere minutes, running with almost the same speed he'd ran during the fight with Thanos. As if his life depended on it. When he reaches the clearing from which he can see the hill with its trees, knowing the lake is just behind, something stops him in his tracks, making each following step more difficult than the last. It isn't his journey, or the one made today, that's weighing him down – it's the thought of Bucky walking towards his old self, now in full knowledge of the pain he'd caused – and Bucky must've known, too – was only minutes away. Each blade of grass becomes a needle in the soles of his feet. By the time he reaches his friend, he feels bled dry.

'You didn't wanna see it,' Steve asks redundantly, sitting on the bench beside him.

'I'll see it,' Bucky shrugs. 'How is she?'

'Shocked. Beautiful. Happy. Chummy with Sam. We might've made a terrible mistake, there.'

'You don't think that,' he says fondly.

'I don't think that,' Steve agrees. 'Not about her, anyway. Sam, on the other hand..' Bucky chuckles, but he's still in a daze, only half-acknowledging Steve's presence. His eyes are fixed on the quiet surface of the lake, Steve realizes with a sense of panic Bucky hasn't turned to look at him yet.

'Penny for your thoughts?' He asks, feeling every bit the insecure teenager he probably still is, emotionally. Bucky merely sighs and puts his flesh hand on Steve's knee, quiet.

'Does it remind you of –' Steve begins to ask when he's cut off by Bucky's ' _seriously_ ' stare.

'No, of course not. You don't need to be reminded,' he answers his own question. 'Sorry.'

'Don't... I don't want you to keep apologizing.' Bucky turns back to the lake.

'It's a beautiful day,' Steve stupidly tries to change the subject.

'It is,' Bucky agrees. They sit in silence for a while, observing the water. Steve doesn't want to disturb the surface – of what they've built and smoothed over - but he can't help himself in the end.

'Do you still feel those years between us?'

'I do,' Bucky replies too quickly for his liking, frowning. Steve is crestfallen until he sees Bucky's grin. 'How they've molded us into – whoever it is we've become, and it's good. How long we've loved each other. How long we've survived.'

'A mix of the old and the new?'

'Something like that,' Bucky agrees.

'Where is home?' Steve asks with a cheeky grin of his own, now that he understands Bucky isn't being resentful, but reverent.

' _You're_ here,' Bucky half-asks, an intentional throwback to their previous conversation on this bench.

' _I'm_ here,' Steve echoes.

'For good.' Bucky says, and this time, it isn't a question.

' _Well_ , a friend told me great things about Budapest. A couple of friends, actually.'

'That sounds like it could be home,' Bucky smiles. 'If _we're_ there, Budapest could be home.'

'Together,' Steve supplies. Bucky turns and rolls his eyes, as if to say – _obviously_.

'It's a crumbling federation,' he then warns. 'It ain't gonna be pretty, pal.'

'I know,' Steve sighs. 'We could do some good there, though,' he lets his smile widen, 'if we wanted to.'

'Hearing that siren call of battle trumpets again, Rogers?'

'Not at all. Perfect silence. I just wanna make the world a better place,' Steve chuckles. 'For you, Sergeant Barnes. _With_ you.'

'Well, don't go telling that to all the girls and boys,' Bucky teases.

Steve is completely serious when he replies,

'Only to you, Buck. Always, only to you.'

*

They've managed to find photographs even they themselves hadn't seen from the war in Pepper's archive: with the boys, and Peggy, and even Colonel Phillips – who Steve swears he doesn't need a daily reminder of, but still frames a picture of the whole SSR unit, Phillips included, and puts it on one of the shelves. Bucky soon realizes they'll need many more shelves, what with Steve's sudden interest in interior decorating which boils down to coming back from his walks with a growing collection of random figurines and vintage postcards of Budapest acquired at the flea market. Missing in the midst of all this is a photo of Peggy, even though Bucky mentions it several times and is truly, honestly _fine_ with the idea. It even seems unnatural not having it up there between old Éva and Becca, above or below Sharon and Nat – it's an absence that speaks louder than words.

A month later, Steve's finally done scavenging the markets and antique stores; they've painted most of the rooms (themselves, because where's the fun in it otherwise), and Éva has given them one of her fancy ceramic tea sets Steve had been enamored by, that had belonged to Magda.

'Are you sure?' Bucky had asked when presented with the box, eyeing her warily.

'She would have loved you,' Éva had nodded. 'She _did_ , if other-Steven is to be believed. So.. consider it a present, from us both. It brings me great joy, James, to think of her giving you this present.'

It's odd how differently Éva has taken to her new youth, in comparison to Steve. As an old lady, she'd almost seemed happier. Not that she isn't happy now, but with the youth have come the memories – if Bucky had to bet on what's making her seem more distant than usual, it's the fact that while she herself has changed, nothing else has. She hasn't gotten a do-over, it's a fresh start.

'This body still remembers her,' she tells Bucky when he asks about it. 'And is it not the strangest thing? I always believed that the ship of Theseus – it was an experiment, about the _mind_. About experience. Abstract. And yet...these hands, they remember her as if she had been here yesterday.'

He doesn't know how to respond, so he says nothing – only scoots over on the couch to put his arm around her small body and kiss into her wiry hair.

Steve keeps track of the exchange from the kitchen counter, chopping vegetables for a stew, but remains silent. After Éva leaves that evening and they've gone to bed, however, he scoots a millimeter closer to Bucky than he usually does and embraces him more firmly. Bucky can feel the dampness on his neck where Steve's face has nestled against it.

'We've been very lucky,' he says in acknowledgment of what his friend has left unsaid. Steve replies with a wet kiss to his collarbone.

*

It happens on a most ordinary day, while it's still spring, but the weather is already bleeding into summer, respectful of the oncoming heat. There's a quick drizzle in the afternoon that catches Bucky unawares on his way back from grocery shopping. When he enters the apartment in a hurry, Steve doesn't budge from the sofa, holding a thin book in his hands. After discarding his wet clothes and replacing them with a comfy pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, Bucky returns to the living room to find Steve holding the same book, standing in front of the wall with the bookshelves. Finally, he extends his arm and places it next to Sarah's prayer book Bucky had reclaimed from Pepper. Even without looking, Bucky knows what it is. T.S. Eliot.

The poem had been a bridge between Steve and him at the start, but it had first and foremost been something Steve had shared with Peggy. With Éva. Literature, philosophy, art. All the consequential and beautiful things Bucky had never paid attention to, had never thought he'd get the chance to discover. And yet, they had tied them all to each other, for eternity. The words they'd shared. He remembers a quote from that book Steve had read to him, in his old voice, that had never made much sense until now – ' _every attempt is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure because one has only learnt to get the better of words for the thing one no longer has to say_.'

Bucky figures it's well and good for Eliot, probably too for the critics who twist the tendons of words and dissect syllables joint by joint, leaving nothing to chance, to different interpretations. But he also knows that Eliot is wrong, plain and simple. That this view is simultaneously too narrow and too wide. Even if one doesn't have the words, there is plenty to replace them with – a silly blanket, a stereo, a dance, a kiss. A room with walls of a garish coral you will surely paint over in a month or two. Coming back. Staying. There are things one will always want to say, things that aren't changed by when your words come, so long as they do. He forgives Eliot, though, because he can empathize with being the hammer that sees each problem as a nail, having been that weapon himself.

He crosses the room in two long strides and stands beside Steve, observing the book now sitting on the shelf. Out of habit, out of need – because it is inevitable when they are so close together – he intertwines their fingers together.

'Happy?' He asks, needlessly. It's only something to mark the occasion, really. A word he already knows is the right one. If he didn't, he wouldn't be standing here.

Steve turns with raised eyebrows and his winning smile, looking as young as Bucky feels, despite the lines that have begun forming around their mouths and eyes in the last year, undiluted joy mocking super-hi-tech chemistry and cellular regeneration, adamant to leave its mark. How happy are we, Bucky wonders – how incredibly happier _have_ we been – for it to be so?

The answer doesn't come as a shock. The luckiest two bastards in the universe. He knows Steve feels the same, there's no guessing anymore, no need for it. They speak plainly and clearly to each other, for the first time in their lives, and it's exactly as Bucky had expected it would be. A big gulp of freedom, refreshing and invigorating when swallowed, spreading through the entirety of his body: making him crisp, and clean, and _new_. Or perhaps not new exactly – it is a freedom that does not erase who he's been or what he's done: it comes from the acceptance of pain, not the denial of it. It's sold at the steep price of remembering everything, being all the more sweet because of it.

'You have to let it all in,' Éva told him when he mentioned this strange ratio of hurt and joy, 'to let it go. To experience the world as who you are, you need to accept who you have been.'

Bucky can read between the lines.

It's a lie, he thinks, that roads serve to return as often as they do to leave. Even a return is inevitably a departure. Time once lost can never be reclaimed, it is always new ground you are treading. There is no going back – not for Steve, as young as he appears – not for him, either. They'll never find themselves on a balcony in Paris in 1944 again, one of them suddenly brave enough to ask for a dance. They won't be able to replay their meeting in Bucharest, or the time Bucky had gone back under in Wakanda, thinking it would be better for all involved. Steve can never take back his decision from the day on the lake, or erase his future in that past Bucky will never know. Still, it's good to have found each other, even as late as now. They have to live with their differences, with the years in-between the choices they've made. It won't be easy, but it's far from impossible. This is only the beginning.

Bucky adds points to the list he goes through every morning as he wakes up next to Steve: not because he's afraid to forget, but because they're a joy to recall. How they met as kids and had each others' backs when nobody else did. How they used to say I love you with silly stories and cartoons. How they've saved each other so many times, counting them all would take up most of his day. How they've lost and found each other through the years - how the years haven't mattered, in the end. How they've been able to forgive. How they say 'I love you' with words now every morning, and almost every night. How they kiss the other before leaving to buy bread from the nearby pretentious bakery, pull the blanket over the other's feet while watching a movie. How they hold hands casually before a fight; say, about to enter a shower of bullets, 'If something happens, _please_...' – without meaning it, never meaning it, because neither can imagine a fate cruel enough to tear them apart, _again_. 

They will make more memories, Bucky will be happy to tack them on to the litany. But always, he knows, he will finish with the same two sentences. Steve is Steve, I am me, and we are together. This is a good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit shook that this is all-but-over and that I've managed to churn out this many words in what isn't a lot of time. It's been such a lovely experience sharing this story with all of you, and I'll likely share more at a future time, though I'll take a breather after the final chapter to figure out what would best serve the 'prequel'/other timeline story.
> 
> Needless to say, I have appreciated all the lovely comments, which have kept me writing and trying to stay more or less on schedule. :) Would love to hear any more thoughts you have to share, about this chapter or the story as a whole, etc. 
> 
> The final chapter/epilogue will involve a time skip and be a bit shorter (I think), so there's still that, but for all intents and purposes, the story is now 'done'!


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gathering of friends and family, two years later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing to declare in terms of content warnings except mentions of war(s), but otherwise – this is a scene made entirely of wholesome family fun and introspection. 
> 
> This wonderful Hungarian folk song makes an appearance, so in case you want to give it a go, do - [ Tavaszi szél vizet áraszt (Spring wind floods the water). ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fzjhhOVTpJc)

**Most Read in EUROPE**

** ECU ** D-Day For Hungary, Croatia: National Votes On Secession Coming In 

** Czechia  ** Fall Of The Crimson Curtain! Citizens Gather On Charles Bridge To Celebrate The Independence Of Their Former Compatriots

 ** Hungary  ** Sergeant Barnes & Captain Noble: From American Superheroes To International Humanitarians 

The Guardian, March 30 2026

*

Sam, Clint and Sharon are sitting on the living room sofa, bickering over nacho toppings.

'We need more cheese is all I'm saying,' Sam is trying – and failing – to explain. 'Who doesn't like _cheese_?'

Clint gives him a 'don't go there, man' look while Sharon sighs in exasperation, subtly cocking her head towards Paul who is lounging on the floor with Bruce, discussing vegan diets.

'Right. Misery loves company,' Sam grudgingly takes the hint.

'More pálinka?' Clint offers.

'Damn right.'

'Steve! More pálinka!'

'Yes, master,' Steve deadpans as he sets two refilled bowls of nachos on the coffee table, one with extra cheese. He winks at Sam before returning to the kitchen and bringing three bottles of the requested beverage: pear, plum, peach. The best P's.

He gets a resounding applause for his efforts from the couch, and a side-eye from the floor. As he settles into Bucky's lap on the armchair, he whispers into his ear.

'I think you need to chop some more carrots, Paul hasn't had anything to snack on for _an hour_ , Bruce ate all the veggies.'

'Paul can learn to eat nachos like _normal_ people, then,' Bucky rolls his eyes.

' _Bucky_ ,' Steve chides him. 'We said we'd be nicer to him, for Sharon's sake.' By 'we' he obviously means 'you'.

'Shh,' Bucky pushes him away, smiling. 'The votes are finally in.'

Steve turns to the TV, along with everyone else. Hungary and Croatia are the last of the 'old' nation-states to seek its independence from the ECU. When the little graph for Hungary appears on the screen, Steve stares at the numbers in awe. 87% for independence, at 73.6% voter turnout. And that's not even counting all the people whose voting rights still haven't been returned, a task Steve and Bucky have been tirelessly working on for the last eight months. The numbers in Croatia are nothing to shout about, but they are still enough for the referendum to be legitimate and counted as a win. When the graph changes back to Hungary, Clint whistles and claps his hands.

'Well, that will make our jobs easier.'

Sharon laughs.

Sam throws two fistfuls of nachos in the air (careful to grab those from the bottom not to waste any cheese).

'Independence day!' He yells for good measure. Steve glances at him disapprovingly.

' _What_? I'm being _festive_! It's a _festive_ occasion _._ '

'Great. Then while I remain being festive here, you'll make the next batch, and vacuum tomorrow,' Steve retorts.

'Shhhhh,' Bruce interrupts, grabbing the remote from the table and turning up the volume. 'Here it comes.'

'We're being told it's time for the representative of the independence movement to address the audience,' the Hungarian journalist reporting from Kossuth Lajos tér screams into the camera, aware of the futility of attempting to _professionally_ talk over the crowd. Bucky translates to the room. 'A young woman, a newcomer on the political scene, who has found a way to inspire our nation to retake its rightful place in history... _Blablabla_ –'

'They won' t be calling _you_ to the UN anytime soon,' Clint laughs.

'As if anyone cares about the UN anymore,' Sharon scoffs.

'We do apologize, dear viewers, for what might appear as our lack of objectivity,' Bucky raises his voice and enunciates every word glaring at Clint. 'As you can see, everyone is cheering here, there are fireworks lighting up the Danube – it is difficult to stay impartial on such a festive occasion.'

' _Festive_ ,' Sam repeats significantly. Steve ignores him, eyes glued to the screen.

The camera pans over the Danube taking its time to flow down to the Chain bridge. It almost looks like lava, gilded by the lights from the Parliament building, peppered with reflections of the fireworks – little, colorful jewels on the golden crests of each wave. Steve can almost smell the gunpowder mixed with the wet, riverside air.

Suddenly, the hubbub grows significantly quieter and the transmission returns to the stage in the middle of the square. A woman ascends to the podium, her unruly black curls standing in sharp contrast to the pale yellow stone behind her; her face appearing as if etched from that same substance. She's wearing a peculiar red dress, asymmetrical in every possible way: definitely unlike anything a politician would wear. So different from the power suit costume Cassandra had worn in her public interviews, Steve chuckles to himself. He thanks his lucky stars it's so.

'My name is Lili Stern,' she begins, looking across the audience as she speaks, nodding here and there, before focusing on the camera in front and revealing a set of exquisite white teeth in a smile as large as the world.

'I am the daughter of Magda and István.'

' _Yass, queen_ ,' Sharon whoops and Paul joins in, to everyone's poorly hidden dismay.

'That woman,' Bucky shakes his head just as the applause dies down to let her continue.

'One of these days,' Sam adds.

'I can't even,' Clint moans. Sam gives him a why-the-hell-not look, nodding towards the octopus that is Steve and Bucky.

'Don't even go there,' Bucky warns. Sam is about to protest when Lili speaks again.

'Thank you, thank you,' she waves at the crowd, even skipping a couple of times in glee. They'll be eating from the palm of her hand for decades to come, Steve can tell. 'We have much to celebrate, my friends – tonight, we have achieved what mere months ago seemed impossible to those not paying attention. I bet they are all paying attention to us _now_.'

' _We_ sure as Hell are,' Sam adds. The audience seems to share his sentiment. There are cheers echoing across the courtyard of the building as well, the people unable to go to the rally glued to their screens, their celebratory spirit not in the least affected by the distance.

' _But_ –' she raises her hand to silence the chanting, 'though there is much to celebrate, we cannot – we must not – do so without remembering.' The camera pans across suddenly somber faces in the first rows, nodding. 'I want to tell you a story. It is one many of you will know, one some of you will even share.' More nodding. Steve is curious where she's going with this. 'My great-grandparents, like most of my family, were killed during the Horthy regime for being of a different religion. With a little luck – and not a little help – my grandmother survived. She _lived_ , she met my grandfather, she had a family. She chose to have it _here_. Both of them had loved Budapest, loved their country, like no other place on this Earth – it was their home. A decade passed before another war knocked on their door – a smaller one, a very short one, all the more tragic for being so. My grandmother died on October 24th, 1956. My father, still a toddler, would never hear her sing. He would marry my mother. Again, he would fight – they _both_ would – against those who wished to separate us. Us – who had been neighbors exchanging sugar and milk in the mornings, us – acquaintances who had drunk coffee together for decades, always with the offer of cake or sugar cubes on the side to sweeten our encounters. Us – who had been friends, who had lived through their share of pálinka-driven adventures, who had always been there for one another in the mornings.'

'We will wake up with the biggest hangover of our lives, tomorrow. We have been through – survived – another war. Another attempt at separation. On a scale we could not have dreamed of. Every generation I see here today – all of you have had your share of hardship. But I want to tell you, as long as we are together: truly together, there is nothing we cannot overcome. Tonight is only the beginning. It is a beautiful demonstration of our unity, and I thank you again for your votes – votes, I hope, that were not decided by nationalism or _exclusion_ but rather, by your desire to be free. I hope they were votes _for_ independence, _for_ peace, for deciding our own fate, on our own terms. The history of our country – much like any history of any country – is not clean. It does not show the best of who we are. I would like you to use this night, this day, as a celebration – but what I would like you to celebrate is the _future_.'

Steve is nervous, waiting for the TV crew to show the audience reactions, thinking she might've gone too far, but of course – he shouldn't be. Éva knows, more than anyone, what people are ready to accept, what they can deal with and when. Those who are insecure about the message need only look around and see others, cheering or holding their lighters and phones up to the night sky solemnly, in a prayer: for absolution or better things to come, who would know.

'My father, who fought selflessly in many wars – who to this day remains my inspiration – once said something I would like to pass on to you, who are my friends and my family now. He told me that _the best we can sometimes do is to start again_. His words have never been more important than today. This is our opportunity, in Hungary, but also – in the whole world, that is watching. That is _surprised_. I would like to say to all of them, and all of you – we _can_ start again. We have been given the chance. Let us use it wisely. The things we can change – let us do them better.'

Another round of cheers and applause. Éva grins.

'But, let us do better from _tomorrow_. Tonight – let us toast and celebrate!'

Someone brings her a shot of pálinka, she downs it in one gulp and smashes the glass on the floor, stomping on it with the thick heel of her shoe for good measure. The crowd goes wild. A choir materializes in the back and starts singing a song which sends the audience into even more of a trance. The camera zooms on people crying, people singing, people waving their hands ecstatically with Hungarian national flags and assorted banners.

It's a tune Steve is familiar with, Éva has played it to him countless times, always offering simultaneous translation and disambiguation. _The spring wind makes the waters rise, my flower. Every bird searches for a partner, and me – whom should I choose – I choose you, my flower, my darling. I choose you and you choose me._ He knows what the song means to Éva, but is surprised to find that it now means something to him, as well. It might seem as an odd choice for a celebration, but not to Steve: he understands what Éva is trying to say. To him, to herself, to the world. Her words are clear in his mind, accent-less in both English and Hungarian.

'The spring wind may carry the green ribbons away, but not the veil that is made of sorrow.'

Wisdom acquired through pain is wisdom that lingers.

A tear escapes him, one he tries to badly disguise nuzzling his head against Bucky's hair.

'I thought you _also_ said you can't build a society on a lie,' Bucky laughs into his ear, making sure the rest of their friends can't hear the conversation.

'I don't know that this is a lie,' Steve chuckles, pensive. 'Not _exactly_.'

Bucky nods against his cheek. Steve would like nothing more than to expand on the idea, for them to be alone and talk like they often do in the dark – he never would've thought either of them had as much capacity for philosophizing, would enjoy it as much. But then he looks around the room and sees Sam eagerly waiting by the microwave for the (clearly exorbitant amount of) cheese to melt. Clint exchanging jibes with Bruce – both flushed from the effort to one-up the other on God-knows-what topic again. Sharon comfortably sprawled against the sofa, having moved to sit on the floor now to keep Paul company – Paul, whose usually annoying enthusiasm at last fits the occasion.

There are dear friends whose absence is like a poke in Steve's eye, so he uses his artist's imagination to paint them all in. Thor, off finding his true self somewhere in-between the stars, he would sit next to Bruce. Wanda, wherever she's gone – he spares a moment to hope she is safe and happy, as always when he thinks of her (which is most days). She would definitely be sitting next to Clint, and close to Bucky and himself on the armchair. Pepper, who's texted a photo of herself with Rhodey and Morgan, eating cheeseburgers and watching the speech with the succinct tag of 'You were right.' T'Challa and Shuri, who'd similarly congratulated them in the group chat. Those are the easy ones.

Peggy. Tony. Nat. He spares a thought to Wanda's brother, and Dr. Erskine, as well, raising a toast to the room – Steve thinks the good Doctor would've especially enjoyed this win. Science helping the small guy – who is a girl in this story – go against bullies. Heart emerging victorious in the battle with brute force.

All these people he's loved, Steve thinks, how lucky is he to carry on their legacies, to weave the things they've taught him into the tapestry of his own life? This is what he means when he tells Bucky Éva's fib about her parentage isn't a lie – we aren't born only of our biological parents, but of ourselves, too, of our stories, of the friends we let change us. Families, given or found. Those who had been refugees like him – in space, if not in time – know it best.

When you have no history to cling to, you need _people_ to build each new day, to propel you forward. Memory alone can't do it, it will only keep you standing, rooted in a single spot. And you need to move – like Éva had said when they first met – you _need to_ _move_ because you will never be truly satisfied with where your feet are. Because there is always somewhere else to go. Not for the sake of running away, but because of the hope that things can get better. There are no one-way streets in life, no dead ends, not really: only intermissions. If you don't like where you've found yourself, you do a 180 and you try again. If you have that privilege, the kind that Steve's had – the end can be where you start from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What to say, what to say? 
> 
> It's been quite a journey. When I started writing this fic, I was aware of how much ground I'd be covering, but probably not what it would take to do so. I was also very naïve about needing/not needing feedback to keep at it – so I'll use this opportunity to thank everyone who has been following and commenting throughout. Doesn't really matter how much or how many – but all of you have been very generous, and I am so thankful that you put your trust in this story (and me!) and took the time out of your 'real' lives to keep reading each update! 
> 
> It makes me happy just to hear you've managed to find glimpses of your Steves and your Buckys here, along with what you will hopefully see as a better ending – not the one we got, but perhaps the one some of us needed (not to speak of 'deserved'). :)
> 
> As always, I will be looking forward to your takes, thoughts, ponderings – on this chapter, as well as the whole thing (even if you're 'late to the party', but found something you liked or wanted to comment on – do drop me a line).
> 
> Much love to you all,  
> M.


End file.
